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SYBIL'S   SECOND  LOVE. 


X. 


BY 


JULIA     KAVANAGH, 


% 


AUTHOR    OF 


"BEATRICE,"  "NATHALIE,"  "ADELE,"  "QUEEN  MAR," 

ETC.,    ETC. 


THREE   VOLUMES  IN   OX1C. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

54  9    k    55  1    BROADWAY. 
1872. 


S0^ 


SYBIL'S   SECOND   LOVE. 


CHAPTER     I . 


"This  is  a  very  dreary  old  house,  Denise,"  said  Sybil,  with 
a  sign,  "  and  I  am  sick  of  it." 

Denise  was  kneeling  by  the  hearth  tending  the  fire.  She 
looked  up,  and  seemed  to  ponder  over  the  words  just  uttered 
by  her  young  mistress. 

The  kitchen  to  which  Sybil  Kennedy. had  come  down  to 
make  this  declaration  was  any  thing  but  a  dreary  place  in  the 
estimation  of  Denise.  It  was  a  low,  large,  and  quiet  room. 
Oak-beams,  dark  with  age,  crossed  the  ceiling.  The  tall  oaken 
press  and  dresser  shone  again,  so  polished  with  wax  were  their. 
carved  doors.  Three  windows,  with  octagon  panes  of  a  greenish 
glass,  and  one  of  which  had  a  screen  of  vine-leaves,  let  in  a  sub- 
dued light  that  stole  along  the  red  tiles  of  the  floor,  and  vanish- 
ed in  the  dark  yawning  abyss  of  the  fire-place.  This  was  \ 
gloomy,  and  deep.  It  was  of  rough  stone,  on  which  lilies  and 
shells  were  rudely  carved.  Tall  andirons,  a  deep  valance,  black 
with  smoke,  and  on  the  mantel-shelf  a  row  of  Binning  caudle- 
sticks  and  saints'  images,  iu  Mark  frames,  were  its  only  orna- 
ments, lu  all  Saint  Yincenl  there  was  nol  such  another  kitchen 
chimney  as  this,  and  both  kitchen  and  chimney  were  the  de- 
light of  Denises  heart. 

"In  seventeen  hundred  and  ninety-three,"  Bhe  said,  with 
greal  deliberation, f* my  great-grandfather,  who  was  a  mason, 
was  called  in  l>y  Monsieur  de  Renneville,  and  told  to  plaster  op 


Sybil's  second  love. 


tliis  chimney,  on  account  of  the  royal  lilies  that  were  carved 
upon  it,  and  that  was  how  they  saved  it," 

Syhil  yawned,  and  looked  with  profound  indifference  at  the 
chimney.  She  knew  it  was  admired,  and  so  was  that  old  abbey, 
with  its  cross  and  its  cloister,  and  its  grounds,  that  overlooked 
the  sullen,  roaring  channel ;  but  to  be  transferred  from  a  lively 
boarding-school  in  Brompton  to  an  old  nunnery,  converted  into 
a  dwelling-house,  on  the  French  coast,  is  not  the  fate  most  ac- 
ceptable to  seventeen.  Besides,  Mr.  Kennedy  had  forgotten  to 
leave  her  the  key  of  the  library,  and  he  had  been  gone  since 
the  morning,  and  it  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  her 
annt,  Miss  Glyn,  who  had  been  coming  this  week,  had  not  ar- 
rived.    No  wonder  that  Sybil  was  "  sick  of  it." 

Denise,  a  buxom  French  maiden,  of  some  twenty-five  years 
of  age,  seemed  puzzled  by  the  weariness  of  spirit  which  op- 
pressed her  young  mistress. 

"  The  last  abbess,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  liked  Saint  Vincent. 
She  did  not  think  it  a  dreary  old  house." 

"  To  be  sure  not.  Had  she  not  ten  nuns  with  her?"  saucily 
replied  Sybil.  "  Ah !  if  I  had  ten  young  nuns  with  me,"  she 
added,  with  much  seriousness,  "I  should  like  Saint  Vincent 
amazingly." 

But  it  is  time  that  we  should  describe  Sybil  Kennedy. 
She  was  a  slight,  dark-eyed  and  dark-haired  girl,  very  fair,  and 
though  not  beautiful,  very  pretty.  Indeed,  she  was  as  fresh 
and  bright  as  any  wild  field-flower  on  a  summer  morning. 
She  had  such  a  gay  young  face,  though  she  was  sick  of  Saint 
Vincent,  that  it  was  a  joy  to  look  at  her.  Good-humor  and 
goodness  were  both  written  on  her  clear  open  forehead.  Her 
rosy  lips  seemed  made  for  saucy  speech  and  sunny  smiles. 
Archness,  mirth,  and  ready  wit  were  written  in  her  whole  as- 
pect. There  was  but  one  contrast  to  the  pleasant  story  of  this 
fair  book — this  young  girl's  dark  eyes  were  large,  deep,  and  im- 
passioned. They  were  wonderful  eyes  for  one  so  gay  and  young, 
and  bore  a  meauing  which  might  as  yet  be  unknown  to  their 
owner.  For  they  told  of  fitful  and  vehement  emotions,  of  brief 
and  ardent  joys,  and  maybe,  too,  of  long  sorrows,  since  to  feel 
keenly  is  surely  to  suffer  much.  Nothing  more  tragic  than 
ennui,  however,  ailed  her  now,  and  it  was  with  an  impatient 
little  yawn  that  she  said : 

"  I  used  to  think  that  one  was  sure  to  have  adventures  in 
these  old  houses ;  ghosts,  or  legends,  or  something  or  other, 


SYBILS   SECOND   LOVE.  5 

but  I  now  see  they  are  just  as   stupid   as    brick  ones;    and, 
indeed — " 

The  sound  of  the  opening  door  interrupted  Sybil.  She 
looked  round  and  saw  her  father's  gardener,  Narcisse. 

Truth  compels  us  to  declare,  that  the  heathen  youth,  to 
whom  his  own  beauty  proved  so  fatal,  was  no  prototype  of  Mr. 
Kennedy's  servant.  Indeed,  this  modern  Narcissus  could  shave 
his  beard  and  brush  his  hair  opposite  the  oval  glass  in  his  attic 
without  incurring  the  least  peril  thereby.  He  was  a  little  dark 
man  of  fifty,  with  a  long  lean  face,  and  very  broad  shoulders — 
in  short,  no  beauty.  Ilolding  the  door  in  his  hand,  Narci 
looked  into  the  kitchen,  and  nodded  at  his  young  mistress. 

"  Now,  Narcisse,  I  will  not  be  bored  with  questions,"  said 
Sybil ;  "I  know  nothing — I  can  say  nothing — there  !  " 

".I  told  him  so,"  placidly  said  Narcisse,  rubbing  one  of  his 
legs  against  the  other,  perhaps  to  scratch. 

Now,  reader,  if  you  think  that  the  personal  pronoun  "him  " 
refers  to  any  particular  individual,  you  arc  mistaken.  It  is  part 
of  the  Narcisse  phraseologv,  which  has  its  peculiarities. 

"Who  is  it?"  impatiently  asked  Sybil. 

"  An  oyster." 

This  simile — for,  of  course,  Narcisse  is  speaking  figurative- 
ly— is  another  portion  of  the  Narcisse  phraseology.  It  implies 
hatred,  scorn,  or  merely  contempt. 

"  Tell  him  papa  is  not  within." 

"I  told  him  so,  but  he  will  not  go — a  regular  oyster." 

Oysters  not  being  celebrated  for  their  powers  of  locomotion, 
Narcisse  probably  thought  the  simile  applicable  tothisobsti 
Granger.     Sybil  began  to  feel  a  little  flurried.     What  was  the 
stranger  like? — Middle-aged,  tall,  and  a  tine  man,  was  Narci 
reply.     Still  Sybil  looked  perplexed.     This  oyster  might  b 
the  finest  kind  and  flavor,  but  what  was  Bhe  to  do  with  it  1 

"lie  is  in  the  garden,  waiting,"  -aid  Narcisse. 

"Show  him  in,"  said  Sybil. 

"And  he  has  got  his  carpet-bag." 

The  carpet-bag  made  Sybil  change  her  mind.  It  was  plain 
tlie  \i-itor  came  to  take  possession,  and  she  prudently  thought 
that,  as  her  father  would  soon  come  home,  the  stranger  might 
as  well  stay  in  the  garden,  and  wait  there.  In  the  mean  while, 
Sybil  also  thought  that  she  might  go  up-stairs,  and  recounoitro 
the  enemy  through  one  of  the  first-floor  windows.  She  accord- 
ingly lefl  the  kitchen  by  a  door  opposite  to  that  by  which  Nar- 


6  sybil's  second  love. 

cisse  was  still  standing.  Saint  Vincent  had  been  an  abbey,  and  a 
low  gloomy  passage  took  Sybil  from  the  kitchen  to  the  cloister. 
It  was  small,  Gothic,  and  veiy  beautiful.  The  bright  sunshine 
threw  on  the  walls  which  enclosed  it  the  sharp  shadows  of  the 
arched  gallery.  In  the  centre  of  the  quadrangle  rose  a  carved 
stone  cross  of  fine  proportions,  but  grass  grew  between  the  dis- 
jointed flagstones  of  this  quiet  court,  and  on  its  walls  Sybil 
could  still  read  the  half-effaced  inscriptions  that  had  once  greet- 
ed the  eyes  of  her  pious  predecessors.  "  Blessed  are  they  who 
weep,  for  they  shall  be  comforted,"  said  one.  "  Come  to  me, 
ye  who  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest,"  said  an- 
other ;  and  a  third  seemed  to  reply  in  tender  and  loving  lan- 
guage :  "  As  the  hart  panteth  after  the  fountains  of  waters,  so 
my  soul  panteth  after  thee,  0  God." 

Sybil  paused  in  the  act  of  passing  through  the  cloister.  She 
had  faith  and  imagination,  and  this  silent  language  appealed  to 
both,  and  sent  a  sort  of  remorse  through  her  heart.  How 
could  she  murmur  at  her  lot,  so  calm  and  fair,  when  others  had 
found  happiness  and  content  within  these  narrow  walls  ? 

"  I  wish  I  were  better,"  thought  Sybil,  looking  up  at  the 
roof  of  blue  sky  which  spread  above  her — "  I  wish  I  were 
great,  or  heroic,  or,  at  least,  good,  instead  of  being  the  silly, 
frivolous  little  thing  I  am.  I  know  I  am  little — little  in  person, 
little  in  mind,  little  in  temper — it  is  quite  disheartening.  What 
business  had  I  to  go  down  to  the  kitchen  to  Denise,  and  what 
business  have  I  to  go  and  look  at  this  stranger  ?  Arria  would 
not  have  done  it." 

Now  Arria,  the  wife  of  Poetus,  was  one  of  Sybil's  favorite 
heroines ;  for  this  young  lady's  mind  was  rather  full  of  the 
classics  just  then.  But  logic,  pitiless  logic,  whispered  that 
though  Arria  died  nobly,  she  might  have  lived  simply. 

"  Suppose  some  stranger  came  to  her  father's  house," 
thought  Sybil ;  "  why,  she  would  have  felt  it  her  duty  to  look 
at  him  from  a  distance,  and  see  if  he  was  to  be  trusted  in  the 
atrium.     Why,  then,  should  not  I  ? " 

This  settled  the  question.  Sybil  passed  through  that  por- 
tion of  the  cloister  which  had  once  been  allotted  to  the  novices, 
ran  up  an  old  staircase,  and  entered  a  room  which  commanded 
a  good  view  of  the  lower  garden. 

There  were  two  gardens  in  Saint  Vincent.  One,  on  a  level 
with  the  house,  was  enclosed  by  high  walls  ;  the  other,  to  which 
a  flight  of  stone  steps  gave  access,  was  a  broad  terrace,  exten- 


Sybil's  second  love. 


sively  laid  out  with  tall  trees,  that  nodded  to  the  sea-breeze. 
A  steep  cliff  that  overlooked  the  sea  was  its  only  limit  toward 
the  west ;  a  small  wood,  and  the  stream  on  the  banks  of  which 
stood  Mr.  Kennedy's  mill,  divided  it  from  the  neighboring 
country.  This  portion  of  Mr.  Kennedy's  possessions  had 
flowers  and  gravelled  walks,  and  therefore  could  be  called  a 
garden,  though  it  soon  lost  these  attributes  and  became  wild 
and  uncultivated ;  but  the  real  garden  was  that  which  now  lay 
within  Sybil's  view.  This  was  narrow,  quiet,  and  sunny.  Old 
mossy  walls  enclosed  it,  and  flowers  grew  in  their  shelter.  In 
the  centre  of  a  large  grass-plot  stood  an  ancient  sun-dial,  and 
over  this  the  stranger  now  pored,  in  an  attitude  which  displayed 
the  extraordinary  length  of  his  figure.  He  was  any  thing  but  a 
fine  man  in  Sybil's  opinion.  He  was  long  and  lean,  and  most 
melancholy-looking;  he  had  a  sallow  face,  and  heavy  black 
eyes,  and  lank  black  hair,  and  he  looked  so  dismal  withal,  that 
Sybil  felt  his  was  no  pleasant  countenance  to  gaze  on.  His 
clothes  were  shabby,  too ;  and  his  carpet-bag,  which  lay  on  the 
grass  by  him,  was  but  a  small  one.  Sybil  wondered  what  had 
brought  him,  who  he  was,  and  what  series  of  troubles  had  given 
him  that  woe-begone  aspect?  After  various  surmises,  she  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  either  a  childless  widower  (a 
broken-hearted  one,  of  course),  or  a  shipwrecked  traveller.  She 
leaned  toward  the  latter  hypothesis;  and,  indeed,  it  was  the 
right  one.  The  stranger  you  now  gaze  at,  Sybil,  never  had 
either  wife  or  child,  and  the  sorrow  you  read  in  his  face  springs 
not  from  their  loss.  But  he  has  travelled  along  some  of  life's 
most  rugged  paths,  and  he  is  footsore  and  weary.  He  has  been 
wrecked  on  one  of  life's  darkest  and  most  barren  shores,  and  he 
has  saved  nothing  from  that  fair  ship  which  sailed  the  other 
morning  full  of  promise,  hope,  and  all  good  things.  Pity  him, 
you  happy  child  of  fortune,  pity  him,  and  pray  that  the  goal 
of  his  sad  journey  may  not  be  sadder  still  than  the  road  which 
has  led  him  to  it  thus  far. 


sybil's  second  love. 


CHAPTER    II. 


_    -Poor  man  !»  thought  Sybil,  still  looking  at  him  from  the 
window,    how  tired  he  lofeis  !     His  clothes  are  dusty,  too      He 

after  an6"61"  ^^  °U  f°°'t'     I  mUSt  teU  Narcisse  to  show  nim  » 
But  even  as  Sybil  came  to  this  humane  resolution,  she  saw 
her  lather  coming  down  the  flight  of  steps  that  led  from  the 
upper  into  the  lower  garden.      Mr.  Kennedy  was  a  very  hand- 
some man;  he  was  fifty,  but  he  looked  full  ten  years  younger 
Ihere  was  not  a  silver  thread  in  his  dark  curls;  his  blue  eye's 
were  as  bright  as  at  twenty;  his  pleasant,  genial  smile  lit  his 
lace  like  sunshine,  and  showed  teeth  of  perfect  whiteness.      His 
look,  indeed,  was  not  without  subtlety;  and  if  his  smile  was 
pleasant,  every  one  could  not  read  its  meaning.     Prosperity 
content,  and  cheerfulness  were  written  in  his  handsome  counte- 
nance and  erect  bearing;  and  Sybil,  who  was  very  proud  of  her 
lather  s  good  looks  and  fine  person,  looked  at  him  with  secret 
admiration,  and  contrasted  him  with  that  lean,  sallow  traveller 
very  much  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  latter. 

Mr.  Kennedy  came  down  whistling  carelessly,  but  suddenlv 
grew  silent  and  stood  still— he  had  seen  his  visitor.  A  change 
rapid  and  deep,  passed  over  his  countenance.  At  once  it 
expressed  surprise,  annoyance,  and  Sybil  thought,  dislike.  Her 
pity  for  the  tired  stranger  was  gone  in  a  moment  He  hid 
come  to  annoy  and  trouble  her  father,  and  from  that  hour  she 
detested  him. 

But  Mr.  Kennedy  was  a  man  of  the  world,  accustomed  to 
control  and  to  conceal  his  feelings,  and  by  the  time  the  stranger 
turned  round,  the  master  of  Saint  Vincent  was  calm,  cheerful 
and  smiling,  and  came  forward  with  open  brow  and  extended 
hand. 

'"  How  do  you  do,  Smith  ?  "  he  said,  cordially.  "  How  kind 
ot  you  to  come  and  look  at  me  down  here  !  Every  thins1  is 
going  on  beautifully— beautifully."  & 

"  So  much  the  better  for  you,"  replied  Mr.  Smith,  since 
such  was  his  name ;  "  but  look  at  me." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  slapping  him  on  the 
shoulder,  "  any  one  can  see  what  you  have  been  about." 

"Yes,  a  fool  and  his  money  are  soon  parted,"  replied  Mr 
Smith,  with  a  moody  look  in  his  heavy  black  eyes. 


Sybil's  second  love. 


"  Nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  cheerfully.  "  I  dare  say  il 
is  something  glorious.  You  shall  tell  me  all  ahout  it  after 
dinner,  or  to-morrow,  when  a  good  night's  sleep  will  have 
cleared  your  ideas;  and  now  come  ip  " 

They  entered  the  house  toget  -T,  and  disappeared  from 
Sybil's  view.  Soon  afterward  she'  was  called  down  by  Mr. 
Kennedy,  formally  introduced  to  Mr.  Smith,  and  requested  to 
see  that  a  room  was  prepared  for  him,  and  that  the  dinner  was 
hurried.  Both  orders  were  obeyed,  and  Mr.  Kennedy,  his 
daughter,  and  Mr.  Smith,  soon  sat  down  to  a  very  good  dinner 
in  the  low,  quiet  dining-room  of  Saint  Vincent. 

The  light  of  the  declining  sun  poured  in  through  the  open 
windows  on  the  polished  oak  floor,  and  up  the  wainscoted 
walls.  From  where  she  sat  Sybil  could  see  the  trees  of  the 
garden  stirring  in  the  breeze,  and  the  sweet  scent  of  the  wall- 
flowers came  in  with  every  breath  of  air;  birds  fluttered 
and  twittered  past  the  windows — every  thing  was  bright,  gay, 
and  cheerful;  but  Sybil  looked  at  Mr.  Smith,  and  she  felt 
depressed.  How  is  it  that  some  people  have  this  power  of 
darkening  whatever  comes  within  their  reach  or  ken?  There 
was  no  poetic  melancholy  about  Mr.  Smith,  not  a  trace  of  it, 
and  yet  many  people  would  have  felt  as  Sybil  felt — that  he  was 
depressing.  This  man,  a  vulgar  one  by  his  manners,  and  his 
free  use  of  the  letter  H,  who  ate  rather  too  greedily,  and  had  a 
selfish  eye  to  the  daintiest  morsels ;  who  squared  his  elbows  on 
the  table,  and  talked  of,  and  evidently  thought  of  nothing,  save 
some  incomprehensible  lawsuit  with  a  Mr.  Dermot,  had,  with  all 
that,  a  look  of  sullen  power  and  tenacity  which  made  most  men 
and  women  feel  that  it  was  pleasanter  to  be  out  of  than  in  his 
company. 

"He  is  like  an  ugly  black  sky  when  the  storm  is  coming 
on,"  thought  Sybil;  and  she  wondered  that  her  father  did  not 
seem  to  feel  it,  and  that  he  could  talk,  and  laugh,  and  jest  so 
freely  with  that  horrid  Mr.  Smith. 

But  most  of  all  she  wondered  that  he  was  acquainted  with 
him.  Indeed,  Mr.  Kennedy's  friendliness  and  courtesy  to  Mr. 
Smith  were  something  remarkable.  Mr.  Kennedy  was  a  self- 
made  man,  and,  like  most  self-made  men,  rather  proud.  He 
had  a  natural  refinement,  cultivated  by  a  tardy  though  good 
education,  which  made  him  fastidious — sometimes  to  ex 
Yet  here  he  was,  hand-and-glove  with  that  low  Mr.  Smith,  list- 
ening civilly  to  his  poor  jokes,  laughing  at  them  even,  helping 
1* 


10  Sybil's  second  love. 

him  to  the  best,  humoring  him,  and  actually  seeming  to  enjoy  his 
dreary  company.  Youth  is  quick,  and  cannot  be  all  deceived. 
Sybil  felt  sure  a  good  deal  of  her  father's  friendliness  was 
assumed.  She  would  not  have  acknowledged  it,  even  to  her- 
self, but  she  knew  it,  and  with  the  logic  of  the  heart — not 
always  the  wisest  or  the  best — she  infused  a  double  amount  of 
severity  into  her  disapprobation  of' Mr.  Smith. 

And  Mr.  Smith  did  his  best  to  justify  Miss  Kennedy's 
dislike.  He  ignored  her  completely,  barely  nodded  his  thanks 
when  she  helped  him,  and,  as  dinner  progressed,  he  aspirated 
the  letter  H  more  and  more,  or  less  and  less,  as  the  case  might 
be,  and  became  even  more  dogmatic  and  tiresome  than  at  the 
commencement  of  the  meal.  This  Sybil  attributed  to  his 
having  drunk  a  good  deal,  and  the  fact  did  not  heighten  her 
opinion  of  the  poor  gentleman. 

Unconscious  of  her  displeasure,  Mr.  Smith  only  warmed  as 
he  spoke  of  his  lawsuit  with  Mr.  Dermot,  whose  name  he 
brought  up  with  ever-increasing  bitterness. 

"  I  know  you  stand  by  him,"  he  said,  nodding  at  Mr. 
Kennedy ;  "  but  it  won't  do.  If  there's  law  in  Ireland,  I'll  have 
him  fast ! — I'll  clinch  him  ! " 

And  he  struck  his  fist  on  the  table  till  it  rang  again. 

"  Suppose  there  is  no  law  in  Ireland  ?  "  coolly  said  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy. 

Mr.  Smith's  dull  black  eyes  got  a  sudden  flash. 

"  I'll  make  law  ! "  he  said  under  his  breath. 

Sybil  felt  uneasy  and  frightened;  but  her  father  only 
laughed,  and  replied  gayly, 

"  More  easily  said  than  done." 

"  Where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way,"  said  Mr.  Smith. 

But  there  was  a  tipsy  drawl  in  his  tone,  and  Sybil  began  to 
feel  more  disgusted  than  depressed.  Her  father  thought,  how- 
ever, she  had  enough  of  this,  for  he  looked  at  her,  and  said 
significantly, 

"  Dull  work  for  you,  Pussy." 

"  Yes,  and  I  have  been  dull  all  day,"  replied  Sybil,  reproach- 
fully.    "  You  took  away  the  key  of  the  library." 

Mr.  Kennedy  belonged  to  the  modern  generation  of  obedient 
papas  ;  but  though  he  looked  contrite  on  hearing  his  daughter's 
remonstrance,  he  did  not  give  her  the  key,  for  which  she  held 
out  her  hand. 

"  Pussy,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  like  to  let  a  little  girl  like 


sybil's  second  love.  11 

you  run  wild  in  that  library.     I  know  nothing  of   all  these 
books." 

"  Oh !  there  are  no  novels  amongst  them,"  impatiently  said 
Sybil.     "  They  are  all  such  old  books." 

"  None  the  better  for  that,"  put  in  Mr.  Smith,  for  the  first 
time  uttering  a  remark  directed  to  Sybil. 

He  looked  at  her  across  the  table,  bending  his  heavy  black 
eyes  upon  her  with  a  moody  gaze  which  annoyed  and  offended 
the  young  girl. 

"  Old  books  are  often  old  sinners,"  pursued  Mr.  Smith,  star- 
ing at  Sybil ;  "  and  what  has  a  slip  of  a  girl  like  you,  miss,  to 
do  with  such  ?  " 

"  I  like  them,"  dryly  replied  Sybil. 

"And  what  has  liking  to  do  with  it  ?  "  insisted  Mr.  Smith, 
in  a  drawling  tone.  "I  don't  like  to  be  'ere,  not  I,  and  yet  I 
am  'ere.  Your  father  does  not  like  me  to  be  'ere,  and  vet  he 
has  me  'ere.     "We  all  do  what  we  don't  like,  miss." 

"  Non  sense,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  gaj  ly.  "What  put  that 
into  your  head,  Mr.  Smith  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  stands  to  reason.  I  have  come  down  on  business 
that  you  don't  like — just  as  that  Dermot  don't  like — " 

"No  such  thing,"  curtly  interrupted  Mr.  Kennedy.  "lam 
delighted  to  see  you  here.  And  now,  Pussy,"  he  added,  turning 
to  his  daughter,  "  what  were  you  reading  ?  " 

"  The  Greek  Fathers.     Not  in  Greek,  you  know." 
"  The  Greek  Fathers  ? "  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  smiling,  and  pinch- 
ing her  cheek.     "  Well,  I  suppose  I  may  trust  you  with  the 
Greek  Fathers.     There,  take  the  key,  and  do  not  forget  teatime, 
as  you  did  last  night." 

Sybil  nodded,  and,  glad  to  escape  from  Mr.  Smith  and  his 
sullen  black  eyes,  she  lightly  ran  away,  dangling  the  key  on  her 
little  finger. 

"  I  wonder  what  that  horrid  Mr.  Smith  came  for  ?  "  she 
thought  as  she  entered  the  library.  "  lie  looks  like  a  cheat, 
every  bit  of  him.  I  wish  I  had  told  him  I  was  all  for  Mr.  Der- 
mot.    How  he  would  have  stared  with  his  big  black  eyes  ! " 

The  vision  of  Mr.  Smith's  amazement  tickled  Sybil's  fancy, 
but  only  for  a  moment.  She  stood  in  the  library,  and  with  a 
sigh  of  relief  forgot  all  else. 

What  reader  has  not  felt  the  charm  of  those  quiet  room- 
devoted  to  study  and  knowledge,  where  the  silent  wisdom  of 
ages  patiently  waits  the  student's  hand?     Stillness  and   pi 


12  sybil's  second  love. 

are  in  the  very  air  we  breathe.  On  the  threshold  cease  the  toils 
and  pleasures  and  varieties  of  daily  life.  A  sense  of  rest  steals 
over  the  heart  with  the  sight  of  those  volumes  that  appeal  to 
the  mind  alone,  and  let  the  passions  sleep.  Fever,  excitement, 
agitation,  our  lot  abroad,  are  succeeded  here  by  a  luxurious  intel- 
lectual repose,  soothing  as  that  of  the  fabled  lotus,  but  neither 
torpid  nor  enfeebling. 

And  Sybil  was  a  reader,  such  a  reader  as  seventeen  alone 
can  yield — eager,  unwearied,  and  impassioned.  Whenever  she 
entered  that  long,  low  room,  with  windows  that  opened  on  the 
cloister  aud  shelves  full  of  ancient  books,  Sybil  no  longer  felt 
that  Saint  Vincent  was  a  dreary  old  house,  but  confessed  it  in 
Ler  heart  to  be  a  sunny  Eden. 

The  Abbey  of  Saint  Vincent  had  belonged  to  the  Renne- 
ville  family,  from  whom  Mr.  Kennedy  had  purchased  it,  ready 
furnished,  boohs  and  all ;  and  an  old  abbe  had  stocked  the 
library  with  volumes,  grave,  austere,  and  ponderous,  and  never 
meant  for  seventeen  and  girlhood.  But  young  and  gay  though 
she  was,  Sybil  also  was  of  a  mind  and  temper  to  relish  the  most 
vigorous  intellectual  food.  Of  course  she  wonld  have  liked  a 
poem  or  a  story  better  than  the  fathers,  Greek  or  Latin ;  but 
tailing  these,  she  could  enjoy  and  feel  the  majesty  of  an  Atka- 
nasius,  the  sweetness  of  a  Basil,  and  the  subtle  beauty  of  an 
Augustine. 

She  now  took  down  Saint  Epkrem  the  Syrian,  and  sitting  in 
the  deep  embrasure  of  one  of  the  windows,  she  read  his  account 
of  the  last  great  day.  At  first  Sybil  felt  calm  enough,  but  as  the 
Eastern  imagery  of  this  impressive  writer  rose  before  her,  as,  at 
his  call,  she  saw  and  heard  those  dead  or  yet  unborn  multitudes 
of  all  times  and  all  nations  appearing  before  the  Eternal  Judge, 
a  sense  of  awe  stole  over  her,  and,  half  closing  the  book,  she 
looked  out  into  the  darkening  cloister.  Strange  fancies  came 
to  her.  She  was  herself  an  actor  in  that  great  scene,  and  a 
spectator,  too.  The  nuns  of  the  abbey  were  there  in  their 
black  veils,  and  so  was  her  aunt,  Miss  Glyn  ;  and  she  saw  her 
dearest  friend,  Blanche  Cains,  with  her  fair  hair  flowing  around 
her,  and  her  father,  stern  and  downcast,  and  Mr.  Smith  rising  in 
his  grave-clothes,  with  a  scared  look  in  his  heavy  black  eyes. 

Beyond  this  Sybil  could  not  go.  She  rose  nervously,  for 
the  library  was  almost  dark,  and  she  had  a  childish  fear  of  dark- 
ness. The  dim  and  ghostly  outlines  of  every  thing  around  her 
made  the  simplest  object  appalling.      There  was  terror  lurking 


Sybil's  second  love.  13 

m  the  dark  shelves  and  in  the  darker  books  upon  them.  Mr. 
Smith  had  called  them  old  sinners — suppose  they  came  down 
from  these  shelves  with  spectre  life  in  them  ?  But  no — "  I  will 
not  be  a  coward,"  rebelliously  thought  Sybil,  "  I  will  not." 

She  looked  steadily  at  the  pale  space  of  the  window,  at  the 
dark  lines  of  the  cloister  beyond  it,  and  beyond  these  again  at 
a  little  twinkling  star  that  shone  in  a  black  patch  of  sky,  and 
with  her  eye  fixed  upon  it,  Sybil  resolutely  walked  to  the  door, 
let  herself  out,  and  did  not  quicken  her  step  till  she  reached  the 
door  that  led  to  the  garden.  Into  this  she  flew,  and  breathed 
freely  on  recognizing  Denise  and  Narcisse,  who  were  watering 
the  flowers. 

The  night  was  balmy  and  serene.  True  heavenly  calmness 
filled  those  fields  of  blue  sky,  where  brilliant  stars  had  been 
sown  by  an  Almighty  hand.  There  was  a  perfume  of  flowers 
on  the  night  air,  and  afar  off  you  heard  the  faint  roaring  of 
the  sea. 

"  What  a  coward  I  wTas,"  thought  Sybil  remorsefully ;  "  and 
I  wras  afraid  of  those  poor  old  books,  too  !  I  wonder  who  read 
these  fathers  before  me  ?  " 

She  applied  to  Denise  for  information,  but  all  Denise  knew 
was  that  the  abbe  had  been  a  great  reader. 

"  As  to  that,  so  was  the  young  Count  de  Renneville,  and  he 
had  taken  away  a  good  many  books  with  him  to  the  Manor  of 
Raymond." 

"  Raymond  ! — who  was  Raymond  ?  " 

Denise  wTas  amazed  at  her  young  mistress's  ignorance.  She 
thought  that  the  whole  world  had  heard  of  Raymond,  the  great 
seaman,  who  made  war  on  kings,  and  whose  ships  covered  the 
seas.  But  then  he  lived  a  long  time  ago,  a  thousand  years  at 
least. 

"And  the  Rennevillcs  have  gone  to  live  in  his  manor — how 
is  that,  Denise  ? " 

"  Madame  de  Renneville  is  one  of  his  descendants,  and 
they  have  no  other  house  left  now,  either  mother  or  son — ah  ! 
what  a  good  son  he  is  !  there  never  was  one  like  him,  but  they 
are  so  poor.  They  could  not  keep  Saint  Vincent,  so  they  sold 
it  to  pay  the  debts." 

"  And  where  is  the  Manor  of  Raymond  ?  " 

"Off  there  on  the  hill,  where  you  see  a  light  burning.  Tt  is 
the  old  gray  stone  house  with  turrets,  you  know." 

Sybil  knew  it  well.     She  saw  these  turrets  daily  from  her 


14:  sybil's  second  loye. 

room  window.  She  saw  the  light  now,  and  looked  at  it  half 
sadly.  Ah  !  what  a  wheel  was  life  !  Her  father,  a  child  oi 
fortune,  sprung  from  naught,  enriched  by  a  few  lucky  venturer., 
had  succeeded  the  impoverished  nobles,  as  they  had  succeeded 
the  quiet  nans.  Truly  that  old  gray  Saint  Vincent  was  but  an 
inn,  where  the  guests  followed  fast. 

"  I  wonder  who  will  be  in  it  after  us,"  thought  Sybil—"  who 
will  have  my  room,  and  walk  in  the  garden,  and  read  those 
books  I  am  reading  now  ?  The  old  Abbe  de  Renneville  little 
thought  a  girl  would  come  to  take  up  his  classics  and  his 
fathers  of  the  Church.  He,  too,  read  that  Saint  Ephrem's  vis- 
ion of  Judgment,  for  I  found  his  notes  on  the  margin.  I  won- 
der if  he,  too,  saw  his  Mends  and  acquaintances  in  the  great 
multitude,  as  I  saw  mine." 

"  I'd  'ave  that  cross  down,  and  the  cloister  too,    said  Mr. 

Smith's  dogmatic  voice.  ,■,-,■,  xi 

Sybil  started.     In  her  abstraction  she  had  walked  up  to  the 
open  "dining-room  window,  and  from  that  apartment  it  was  that 
Mr.  Smith's  voice  now  proceeded.     She  saw  him,  too— for  the 
room  was  lit— sullen,  tenacious,  half-insolent ;  and  she  saw  her 
father,  calm,  smiling,  courteous.     Why,  who  was  that  vulgar, 
ill-bred  man,  who  spoke  of  having  both  cross  and  cloister  down  ? 
At  once  Sybil  built  a  little  castle"  in  the  air,  as  it  was  rather  her 
way  to  do ;  but  this  castle  was  neither  pleasant  nor  sunlit.     It 
showed  her  a  dreary  story  of  falsehood  and  ruin,  in  which  Mr. 
Kennedy  f>ured  as" a  victim,  and  that  ended  by  rewarding  vil- 
lainy in" the  person  of  Mr.  Smith,  with  the  possession  of  Saint 
Vincent.     Mr.  Kennedy  and  his  daughter  had  just  entered  the 
carriage  that  was  to  take  them  away,  and  Mr.  Smith  was  nod- 
ding and  grinning  at  them  from  a  window,  when  Mr.  Kennedy  s 
cheerful  voice  called  out, 

"Pussy,  Pussy,  come  and  make  the  tea." 
Sybil  obeyed  "the  summons,  and  felt  ashamed  of  herself  as 
she  looked  at  Mr.  Smith.  He  might  be  low,  ill-bred,  and  de- 
pressing but  surely  he  was  honest— there  was  no  cunning,  no 
subtle  wickedness  in  this  man's  countenance  or  bearing.  _  Again 
Sybil  relented  toward  him,  and  felt  that  pity  for  him  which  had 
been  her  first  feeling  as  she  looked  at  him  from  the  window. 
But  some  people  cannot  be  their  own  friends.  Mr.  Sm.th,  who 
had  been  a  bore  at  dinner,  was  insufferable  at  tea-time.  He 
was  more  than  depressing  now,*  he  was  thoroughly  disagreeable. 
Sybil  looked  at  him  indignantly,  and  thought  him  once  more 


sybil's  second  love.  15 

capable  of  every  iniquity ;  indeed,  she  Lad  no  comfort  till  tea 
was  over,  and  she  went  up  to  the  drawing-room.  But  to  this 
comfort  there  was  a  drawback — Sybil  spent  the  evening  alone. 
Instead  of  playing  to  her  father,  as  was  her  wont,  she  played  to 
herself  in  the  drawing-room,  which  seemed  very  large  and  lonclv. 
Tbe  wax  lights  wbich  burned  in  the  dark  bronze  candlesticks 
on  the  mantel-shelf  only  showed  Sybil  how  vacant  was  that  wide 
apartment,  when  her  father's  handsome  person  and  cheerful 
countenance  were  absent  from  it.  She  played  languidly,  with- 
out spirit  or  pleasure ;  then  she  pla}~ed  not  at  all.  She  threw 
herself  into  one  of  the  deep,  old-fashioned,  red  velvet  chairs, 
and  brooded  over  her  wrongs.  Why  was  she  sacrificed  to  that 
abominable  Mr.  Smith  ?  Whv  did  not  her  father  get  rid  of 
him  ?  If  she  could  only  have  Saint  Vincent  back  again  without 
him,  Sybil  wrould  never  more  think  it  dreary — never.  Surely 
part  of  the  happiness  of  the  nuns  of  the  old  abbey  must  have 
lain  in  being  rid  forever  of  such  beings  as  Mr.  Smith.  For  of 
course  no  such  intruders  came  upon  them  with  their  carpet- 
bags, and  absorbed  their  fathers.  Of  course  not ;  and  yet  sup- 
pose she  should  go  and  ask  Denise  ? 

The  wish,  we  may  be  sure,  was  father  to  this  thought,  for 
with  considerable  alacrity  Sybil  rose  and  went  straight  to  the 
room  near  her  own,  where  Denise  sat  mending  linen  every 
evening.  Nothing  could  exceed  Denise's  surprise  on  hearing 
her  young  mistress  gravely  ask  her  if  any  feminine  prototypes 
of  Mr.  Smith  had  ever  troubled  the  nuns  of  Saint  Vincent. 

"  Why,  from  the  moment  they  entered  it,  till  they  died,  no 
stranger  ever  saw  them,"  replied  Denise.  "  It  was  the  beautiful 
abbess  who  laid  down  that  rule." 

"  The  beautiful  abbess  ! — who  was  she  ? — and  how  did  peo- 
ple know  she  was  beautiful,  if  no  one  ever  saw  these  good 
ladies  ? " 

"  Why,  you  see  the  abbey  had  been  burnt  down,  and  had  to 
be  rebuilt,  and  a  new  abbess  and  ten  nuns  came  to  take  posses- 
sion. It  was  a  grand  sight,  with  banners  and  crosses,  and  a 
procession  and  a  great  crowd;  and  when  the  nuns  reached  the 
gates,  they  passed  by  the  abbess  as  they  entered.  When  tin' 
last  was  within,  the  abbess  turned  to  the  people  and  said, 
4  Farewell,  friends.'  Every  one  answered,  'Farewell,  holy 
mother;'  and  a  young  man,  bolder  than  the  rest,  cried  out, 
'  Holy  mother,  let  us  see  you  before  you  leave  us  ? '  Now,  you 
Bee,  this  good  lady,  a  young  widow,  whom  the  death  of  her 


16  sybil's  second  love. 

husband  had  caused  to  forsake  the  world,  took  the  request  in 
holy  charity,  and  not  perhaps  as  it  was  meant.  So  she  raised 
her  veil,  and  all  saw  her,  and  hers  was  the  most  beautiful  face 
any  one  there  had  ever  seen.  It  shone  like  an  angel's,  and 
dazzled  them  all,  till  the  abbess  dropped  her  veil,  entered  the 
abbey,  and  barred  the  gates.  And  they  do  say  that  the  young 
man  died  of  love ;  but  JSTarcisse  will  have  it  that  if  so,  he  was 
an  oyster.  At  all  events  the  beautiful  abbess  heard  of  it,  and 
laid  down  the  rule  that  none  of  her  ladies  was  to  be  seen  by  a 
stranger  from  that  day  forward." 

Sybil  thought  this  a  hard  case,  and  it  rather  reconciled  her 
to  Mr.  Smith's  presence.  Indeed,  she  was  beginning  to  feel 
quite  lenient  toward  that  gentleman,  when  unluckily  she  heard 
her  father  escorting  him  to  his  room.  This  act  of  hospitable 
condescension  roused  her  wrath  anew.  What  business  had  he 
to  be  in  Saint  Vincent  at  all  ?  It  was  dreadful — of  course  it 
was.  She  immediately  felt  a  violent  headache,  and  informing 
Denise  of  the  fact,  forthwith  retired  to  her  room,  locked  herself 
up,  and  went  to  bed. 

Spite  her  headache  and  her  wrongs,  Sybil  wras  asleep  in  five 
minutes.  But  the  troubles  of  the  day  were  renewed  in  her 
dreams.  She  saw  the  abbey  not  as  it  was,  a  ruin  repaired  and 
converted  into  a  dwelling-house,  but  as  it  had  been — a  fair 
Gothic  building.  She  saw  the  beautiful  abbess,  too,  with  a  fair 
shining  face,  and  her  nuns,  and  she  heard  them  singing  sweetly 
the  psalm  Lcstavi  as  they  crossed  the  threshold  of  their  home, . 
and  vanished  behind  its  gates.  So  far  her  visions  were  pleasant, 
but  unluckily  some  grotesque  and  gloomy  images  mingled  with 
these  mediaeval  fancies.  She  saw  Mr.  Kennedy  lying  dead  and 
bleeding  at  the  convent  gates,  and  Mr.  Smith  bending' over  him 
with  wicked  joy  in  his  black  sullen  eyes ;  and,  to  crown  all, 
Mr.  Smith  wore  her  aunt  Glyn's  favorite  pink  cap. 

"  Oh  !  that  dreadful  bore  of  a  man,"  thought  Sybil,  waken- 
ing— "  I  do  wish  he  would  go ! " 


X-\j 


sybil's  second  love.  17 


CHAPTER    III. 

But  Mr.  Smith,  did  not  go  away,  nor  seem  inclined  to  do 
so.  He  remained  in  Saint  Vincent,  boring  Sybil  more  and  more, 
but  endured  with  perfect  patience  by  Sybil's  father.  Luckily 
the  two  gentlemen  spent  the  greatest  portion  of  their  time  in 
Mr.  Kennedy's  mill ;  for  Mr.  Kennedy  had  a  mill,  and  one 
which  for  a  year  had  been  the  talk  of  Saint  Vincent. 

This  little  watering-place,  in  which  there  is,  as  there  must 
ever  be  in  a  French  town,  an  English  colony,  is  neither  pretty 
nor  remarkable.  It  has  a  port,  some  shipping,  and  to  a  certain 
degree  it  is  wealthy.  A  pretty  but  sluggish  and  shallow  river 
flows  through  it.  This  stream  had  always  been  pronounced  de- 
ficient in  water-power,  when,  to  the  surprise  and  amusement  of 
his  neighbors,  Mr.  Kennedy,  who  had  just  purchased  the  abbey, 
built  a  large  mill  on  the  river  that  passed  through  his  grounds. 
Their  amusement  ripened  into  scorn  when  they  learned  that 
this  foolish  stranger  was  buying  land  far  and  near  in  order  to 
grow  rape-seed,  and,  of  course,  to  make  rape-oil.  This  was  the 
greatest  folly  of  all.  The  soil  of  Saint  Vincent  was  unpropitious 
to  rape.  Although  Mr.  Kennedy  had  asked  none  to  advise 
him,  and  might  have  been  left  to  his  fate,  some  kind  people 
could  not  bear  to  see  him  going  to  ruin,  and  went  and  enlight- 
ened him  concerning  his  double  mistake.  Mr.  Kennedy  heard, 
and  smiled,  and  thanked,  and  persisted  in  his  obstinacy,  and 
went  on  building  his  mill,  and  sowing  rape. 

Time  justified  him,  and  proved  his  best  answer  and  most 
powerful  argument.  Some  ingenious  contrivances  trebled  the 
water-power  on  Mr.  Kennedy's  property,  but  as  he  owned  the 
river  till  it  flowed  into  the  sea,  these  contrivances  added  noth- 
ing to  the  wealth  or  convenience  of  his  neighbors  up  the 
stream,  and  yet  had  the  great  advantage  of  not  being  subject  to 
their  interference.  They  could  see  and  envy,  and  could  not 
mar.  Moreover,  as  spring  came  round,  Mr.  Kennedy's  land  be- 
came covered  with  yellow  blossoms  so  luxuriant  that  the  like 
had  never  been  seen.  Rape  throve  in  Saint  Vincent,  and  tin 
wonderfully.  Day  after  day  wagon-loads  of  it  passed  within 
Mr.  Kennedy's  gates.  The  roads  were  black  with  the  rich 
seed  ;  the  mill  was  set  in  motion,  and  made  a  noise  thai  was 
heard  ever  so  far  off.  Sinewy  men,  who  earned  untold  sums,  ii 
was  said,  labored  day  and  night  to  extract  the   oil ;  their  cot- 


18  Sybil's  second  love. 

tagcs  dotted  Mr.  Kennedy's  land,  and  of  a  tame  agricultural 
district  this  enterprising  stranger  soon  made  as  prosperous  a  lit- 
tle nook  as  was  to  be  found  on  the  whole  coast. 

But  little  care  youth  and  girlhood  for  commerce,  enter 
prise,  and  money.  Sybil  disliked  the  mill,  for  it  was  a  rival, 
and  took  a  great  deal  too  much  of  her  father's  time  and  affec- 
tion ;  if  any  thing,  therefore,  could  add  to  her  aversion  for  Mr. 
Smith,  it  was  the  fact  that  he  combined  with  that  hateful  mill 
to  absorb  Mr.  Kennedy.  So  she  went  on  lamenting  that  gen- 
tleman's presence  in  Saint  Vincent,  and  declaring  to  herself 
that  there  had  never  been  any  thing  so  dreadful.  But  she  soon 
learned  to  her  cost  that  Mr.  Smith  could  add  to  the  sum  of  his 
iniquities. 

They  were  at  breakfast  on  the  third  morning  of  Mr.  Smith's 
sojourn  in  Saint  Vincent,  when  a  great  rattling  of  wheels  was 
heard  at  the  gates.  Sybil  clapped  her  hands,  and  started  up  in 
great  joy. 

"  Aunt  Glyn  !  "  she  cried. 

"  I  fancy  there  are  two  carriages,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  rising 
more  slowly.     "  Mrs.  Mush,  I  suppose." 

Sybil  paused  on  her  way  to  the  door,  to.  look  with  surprise 
at  her  father.  Mr.  Kennedy  was  a  fond  and  indulgent  parent, 
but  he  was  not  a  communicative  one.  It  was  plain  that  he  had 
asked  Mrs.  Mush  to  come,  and  that  he  had  thought  fit  to  tell 
his  daughter  nothing  about  it.  Sybil  was  all  the  more  puzzled 
at  this  double  invitation,  that,  though  her  aunt,  Miss  Glyn,  and 
her  cousin,  Mrs.  Mush,  were  relatives  and  friends,  they  had  always 
found  it  impossible  to  live  in  the  same  house.  Their  friendship 
could  stand  yearly  and  even  monthly  meetings,  but  it  went  down 
at  weekly,  and  froze  at  daily  intercourse.  The  admission  of 
one  was,  therefore,  the  exclusion  of  the  other.  Mr.  Kennedy 
knew  this  as  well  as  Sybil,  but  he  wanted  to  be  sure  of  one  lady 
to  keep  house  for  him,  in  case  the  other  did  not  suit.  He  had 
accordingly  asked  them  both  at  the  same  time,  feeling  confident 
of  his  power  to  keep  them  at  peace  during  a  fortnight,  at  least, 
for  he  had  mentally  fixed  this  as  the  limit  to  their  time  of  pro- 
bation. Without  heeding  his  daughter's  amazed  look,  he  there- 
fore went  to  meet  his  guests,  and  bid  them  welcome. 

From  one  carriage  stepped  down  a  tall,  bony,  and  angular 
lady  of  fifty — this  was  Miss  Glyn.  From  the  other  carriage 
buoyantly  alighted  a  younger  and  stouter  lady,  with  a  full  per- 
son, a  round,  good-humored  face,  and  a  pair  of  twinkling  gray 


sybil's  second  love.  19 

eyes — this  was  Mrs.  Mush.  The  two  ladies  had  travelled  from 
opposite  directions,  and  only  recognized  each  other  as  they 
now  stood  at  the  gates  of  Saint  Vincent.  For  a  moment  they 
stared  at  each  other  in  mute  amazement ;  then  Miss  Glyn  turned 
crimson,  and  looked  at  her  carriage,  as  if  she  felt  inclined  to 
step  back  into  it  forthwith  ;  whilst  Mrs.  Mush  burst  out  laugh- 
ing, and  shook  her  forefino-er  at  Mr.  Kennedv. 

Miss  Glyn  recovered  first.  Mr.  Kennedy  could  not  mean  to 
keep  them  both — Saint  Vincent  must  needs  be  a  battle-field — 
and  for  Sybil's  sake  she  would  stay  and  expel  the  enemy. 

"How  are  you,  Mrs.  Mush?"  she  inquired,  with  much  statc- 
liness. 

"  Oh  !  quite  well,"  airily  replied  Mrs.  Mush.  "  We  did  not 
expect  this  meeting,  did  we,  Mary  ?  We  ought  to  be  very  much 
obliged  to  Mr.  Kennedy  !  " 

"  I  am  obliged  to  Mr.  Kennedy,"  .stiffly  said  Miss  Glyn. 

Sybil  looked  as  she  felt,  much  confused ;  but  her  father  was 
delightfully  easy  and  hospitable. 

"  It  gladdens  me  to  see  you  both,  ladies,"  he  said,  gayly. 
"  Poor  little  Pussy  has  been  so  dull  alone  here  with  me,  but 
she  will  cheer  up  now  in  your  society." 

Miss  Glyn  drew  herself  up  coldly,  and  tried  to  keep  Mr. 
Kennedy  at  a  distance;  but  he  gently  broke  through  these 
gossamer  trammels,  and  triumphantly  entered  the  house  with  a 
lady  on  either  arm.  Sybil  followed,  thinking :  "  I  like  Aunt 
Glyn  best,  but  then  I  shall  be  very  sorry  if  Mrs.  Mush  goes. 
What  a  pity  we  cannot  have  them  both  !  " 

It  was  a  pity,  no  doubt,  for  each  of  these  ladies  had  good 
points  in  her  way.  Miss  Glyn  was  very  fond  of  Sybil,  kind, 
and  rigidly  honest.  Mrs.  Mush  was  a  happy,  indolent,  good- 
tempered,  and  entertaining  widow,  who  amused  Sybil  infinitely, 
for,  as  she  never  felt  dull  herself,  she  had  the  happy  gift  of  not 
letting  others  feel  dull  in  her  company.  But  for  all  that,  she 
could  not  live  in  Miss  Glyn's  society,  and  Sybil  only  wondered 
how  long  either  lady  would  remain.  Her  estimation,  founded  on 
past  experience,  varied  from  three  days  to  a  week.  Mrs.  Mush, 
to  do  her  justice,  was  all  for  peace  and  conciliation.  She  liked 
the  broad,  comfortable  look  of  the  old  abbey,  and  wish«d  to 
stay  in  it  as  long  as  she  could. 

"  You  need  not  mind  me,  my  dear,"  she  said,  noticing  Syb- 
il's perplexed  look,  as  her  father  devolved  upon  her  the  duty 
of  escorting  the  ladies  to  their  respective  apartments.     "  Ju*t 


20  sybil's  second  love. 

show  me  the  door  of  my  room,  and  I  shall  soon  make  myself 
comfortable  with  a  nap — no  breakfast  like  that." 

Sybil  gave  her  a  grateful  look,  but  Miss  Glyn  took  the  con- 
cession as  her  due,  and  entered  her  room  with  considerable 
stiffness  of  bearing.  She  looked  around  her,  nodded  her  appro- 
bation, and  said  briefly, 

"  I  see  that  a  month  hence  I  shall  have  roses  looking  in  at 
my  window." 

"  We  have  roses  everywhere,"  heedlessly  said  Sybil ;  "  Mrs. 
Mush  has  them,  too." 

"  But  I  do  not  suppose  Mrs.  Mush  means  to  wait  for  their 
blooming,"  coldly  replied  Miss  Glyn  ;  "  indeed,  I  shall  simply 
consider  it  out  of  the  question.  This  seems  a  very  rambling 
sort  of  house,  Sybil." 

"  It  is  very  pleasant,  aunt.     "Will  you  look  over  it  ?  " 

Miss  Glyn,  being  of  a  quick  and  warm  temper,  piqued 
herself  on  the  opposite  attributes  of  composure  and  calmness. 
With  a  lofty  smile,  she  answered  that  there  was  plenty  of  time 
to  see  the  house. 

"  It  is  very  comfortable,  aunt,"  persisted  Sybil,  "  and  if  that 
horrid  Mr.  Smith  would  only  go  away,  I  should  think  it  fault- 
less now." 

Miss  Glyn  paused  in  the  act  of  untying  her  bonnet-strings 
to  ask  "  who  Mr.  Smith  was." 

"  Oh !  such  a  dreadful  vulgar  man,  who  doesn't  aspirate  the 
letter  H,  and  who  came  here  the  other  day  with  a  carpet-bag." 

"  A  carpet-bag  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Glyn,  amazed  ;  "  why  did 
he  not  bring  a  trunk  ? " 

"  I  dare  say  because  he  has  nothing  to  put  into  one,  poor 
man,"  replied  Sybil,  with  a  touch  of  pity. 

Miss  Glyn's  amazement  became  indignation.  She  was  sur- 
prised, she  confessed,  that  Mr.  Kennedy  asked  such  a  person. 
Sybil  nodded  mysteriously,  and  fancied  that  Mr.  Smith  had 
come  unasked. 

"  And  Mr.  Kenncdv  tolerates  the  liberty  !  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Glyn  ;  "  absurd  ! " 

And  Miss  Glyn  kindly  resolved  to  put  down  Mr.  Smith 
without  loss  of  time. 

Mrs.  Mush  might  require  the  restorative  of  a  nap  before  she 
could  show  herself  again,  but  Miss  Glyn,  who  labored  under  no 
such  necessity,  was  soon  ready  to  accompany  her  niece  down- 
Btaire,  and  take  a  freshening  cup  of  tea. 


Sybil's  second  love.  21 

"  Miss  Glyn,  Mr.  Smith,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy  in  a  slight 
careless  tone. 

Miss  Glyn  stared  at  Mr.  Smith,  who  returned  the  stare  with 
interest,  and  war  was  declared  forthwith. 

Miss  Glyn  had  secretly  taken  ohjection  to  Mr.  Smith's  car- 
pet-hag, which  she  had  not  seen,  and  Mr.  Smith  now  found 
fault  with  the  pink  ribhons  on  her  cap,  which  he  saw.  So,  while 
Miss  Glyn  drank  her  tea,  and  ignored  him,  he  squared  his  el- 
bows on  the  table,  and  stared  at  her  with  a  sneer. 

Mr.  Kennedy,  who  saw  toward  which  end  matters  were 
progressing,  succeeded  in  taking  him  away,  by  suggesting  a 
visit  to  the  mill ;  but  a  rolling  stone  only  acquires  new  impetus 
when  it  is  momentarily  checked  in  its  downward  course.  So  it 
proved  with  Mr.  Smith's  silent  wrath. 

When  Miss  Glyn  had  taken  her  tea,  she  was  equal  to  a  sur- 
vey of  the  house.  It  was  slow,  minute,  and  somewhat  cen- 
sorious. 

"I  don't  like  that  goggle-eyed  French  maid  ofyonrs,"  she 
said  to  Sybil ;  "  and  it  is  ridiculous  to  have  a  man-servant  called 
Narcissus.  The  house  would  not  be  amiss  if  it  were  not  for  the 
staircases,  which  are  absurd ;  and  I  don't  much  like  the  clois- 
ter, Sybil,  but  I  shall  improve  all  that." 

Sybil  looked  as  she  felt,  a  little  disturbed.  She  much  doubt- 
ed if  her  father  would  allow  Miss  Glyn  to  improve  matters  in 
Saint  Vincent.  But  Miss  Glyn  had  come  to  rule,  and  no  more 
doubted  her  power  than  her  vocation.  Indeed,  there  was  a 
magnanimous  security  about  her,  which  showed  how  calmly 
fixed  was  her  purpose.  Thus,  when  Mrs.  Mush  came  down  re- 
freshed and  rosy,  Miss  Glyn  was  all  courtesy  and  condescen- 
sion. 

"  Have  a  cup  of  tea,  Mrs.  Mush  ? "  she  said  ;  "  it  will  do  you 
a  world  of  good." 

"  Thank  you,  Mary,  I  breakfasted  before  coming." 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  house,  Mrs.  Mush  ?  It  might 
amuse  you." 

"Oh!  I  have  already  peeped  about.  I  like  that  cloister, 
Sybil — a  drowsy-looking  place." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  go  and  sit  there — perhaps  you 
would  prefer  it  to  the  garden?"  persisted  Miss  Glyn,  obstinately 
kind  and  courteous;  "let  us  have  chairs  in  the  cloister,  Sybil — 
Mrs.  Mush  likes  it." 

Mrs.  Mush  yielded  good-humoredly  to  Miss  Glyn's  patroni- 


22  SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOVE. 

zing  ;  and  Sybil,  pleased  to  see  them  so  friendly,  went  and 
fetched  chairs  herself;  then  ran  up  for  Miss  Glyn's  work;  then, 
at  her  aunt's  bidding,  went  for  Mrs.  Mnsh's  ;  and  finally  brought 
down  her  own,  and  sat  down  with  the  two  ladies  in  the  cool 
shady  part  of  the  cloister. 

How  pleasant  it  looked,  thought  Sybil,  with  its  sharp  shade 
and  sunshine,  and  the  old  gray  cross,  and  the  high  slender 
grasses  that  shot  from  every  cranny,  and  the  yellow  wall-flowers 
that  grew  on  the  edge  of  the  roof,  and  danced  all  golden  and 
sunlit  on  the  blue  sky.  Oh  !  if  Aunt  Glyn  and  Mrs.  Mush  could 
only  agree  and  remain  both  in  Saint  Vincent.  Mr.  Kennedy,  who 
suddenly  entered  the  cloister,  also  thought  it  was  very  pleasant 
to  see  his  daughter  sitting  with  ladies  whose  society  could  not 
but  improve  her,  and  engaged  in  some  of  those  feminine  tasks 
which  she  was  rather  prone  to  neglect,  for  reading  in  the  library 
or  for  long  rambles  in-  the  grounds.  How  pretty  and  demure 
she  looked  thus,  with  her  basket  of  wools  by  her  side,  and  her 
nimble  fingers  scattering  roses  on  her  canvas.  He  could  not 
help  contrasting  her  with  Miss  Glyn  and  Mrs.  Mush :  one  sat 
upright  in  her  chair,  stitching  with  the  vigorous  determination 
of  getting  through  her  work  ;  the  other  leaned  back,  and  wield- 
ed her  needle  as  if  she  felt  its  weight.  Sybil  alone  was  quick, 
without  effort,  and  worked  as  if  her  task  could  neither  fatigue 
nor  Aveary  her.  He  sat  down  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  cross, 
and  looked  at  her  admiringly-;  and  Mr.  Smith,  who  also  came 
up,  sat  near  him,  and  stretched  his  long  legs,  and  looked  at  Miss 
Glyn's  pink  cap  with  unmitigated  aversion. 

"  What  a  pretty  pattern  that  is,  Pussy,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy, 
glancing  at  his  daughter's  work. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  pattern,"  said  Sybil.  "  Blanche  gave  it 
to  me." 

"  Blanche  ! — who  is  Blanche  ?  "  sharply  asked  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Oh !  a  paragon  teacher,  whom  Pussy  raves  about,"  an- 
swered Mr.  Kennedy. 

"  She  is  a  paragon,"  emphatically  said  Sybil. 

"  Very  handsome,  of  course  2  " 

"  Handsome  ! — beautiful." 

"  Very  intellectual  and  accomplished  ?  " 

Sybil's  pretty  lips  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  should 
tnink  so." 

"  And  amiable?" 

"  The  sweetest,  best,  and  dearest  creature  that  ever  breathed," 


SYBIL  S   SECOND   LOVE.  25 

Now,  whilst  Mrs.  Mush  was  philosophizing;,  and  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy was  listening  to  that  fluent  lady,  the  war  was  going  on  be- 
tween Miss  Glyn  and  Mr.  Smith. 

Miss  Glyn  resumed  hostilities  by  staring;  at  Mr.  Smith,  then 
by  ignoring  him  more  than  ever.  Mr.  Smith,  though  not  a  re- 
fined man,  was  a  sensitive  one;  and  as  his  objection  to  Miss 
Glyn's  cap  became  more  bitter  and  troublesome,  he  thought 
proper  to  join  in  the  conversation,  and  express  it.  He  did  so, 
just  as  Sybil  returned  to  the  cloister  with  the  shade  of  wool  she 
had  made-believe  to  go  and  fetch. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  Yorkshire,  Miss?"  said  Mr.  Smith, 
addressing  Sybil. 

Sybil  coolly  denied  all  knowledge  of  Yorkshire. 

"  The  girls  are  very  fond  of  pink  down  in  those  parts,"  said 
Mr.  Smith. 

Miss  Glyn  shook  the  streamers  of  her  cap  in  defiance,  and 
went  on  stitching. 

"  But  then  they're  young,"  persisted  Mr.  Smith. 

Miss  Glyn  threaded  her  needle,  and  smiled  in  scorn.  She 
did  not  care  a  pin  about  her  age. 

"  Old  girls  never  wear  pink  down  there,"  persisted  Mr. 
Smith. 

Miss  Glyn  put  down  her  work,  and  looked  up  in  mute  in 
dignation.  She  had  been  called  "  an  old  girl "  in  her  brother 
in-law's  house. 

"Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said,  rising  slowly,  "the  company  you 
keep  is  not  much  to  my  taste.  Do  not  wonder  if  I  decline 
remaining  in  your  house." 

"  Mr.  Smith,  you  must  apologize,"  peremptorily  said  Mr. 
Kennedy. 

"I  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  replied  Mr.  Smith,  sullenly. 
"  Why  did  she  stare  at  me  ? " 

"  I  shall  accept  of  no  apology,"  calmly  said  Miss  Glyn,  fold- 
ing up  her  work — "  I  require  none  ;  but  I  object  to  the  com- 
pany you  keep,  Mr.  Kennedy." 

She  slowly  walked  away,  followed  by  Sybil,  who  vainly 
endeavored  to  pacify  her.  Mr.  Kennedy,  who  went  after  them 
also,  did  his  best  in  vain.  Mr.  Smith  remained  behind,  biting 
his  nails,  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Mush  with  all  the  might  of  his 
black  eyes. 

"She's  mad,  you  know,"  he  said  at  length  ;  and  having  de- 
livered this  oracular  speech,  he  too  walked  off. 
2 


26  sybil's  second  love. 

Nothing — no  prayer,  no  argument — could  move  Miss  Glyn 
from  her  purpose. 

"I  am  not  angry  with  you,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  magnani- 
mously said ;  "  but  if  you  cannot  help  having  those  foolish, 
low-bred  people  about  you,  I  can  help  being  in  their  company. ' 

"  Mary,  Smith  shall  apologize,"  began  Mr.  Kennedy ;  but 
Miss  Glyn  interrupted  him — 

"  You  do  not  suppose  I  am  so  absurd  as  to  require  the 
creature's  apology  ? "  she  said — "  no,  no  ;  but  I  do  wonder  you 
keep  him  about  you.  Suppose,  even,  you  owe  him  money,  why 
don't  you  pay  him,  and  get  rid  of  him  ?  And  even  if  you  can- 
not, you  need  not  give  him  board  and  lodging ;  and  suppose 
you  choose  to  give  him  board  and  lodging,  you  can  keep  him  at 
a  distance." 

Now  if  Miss  Glyn  expected  either  denial  or  assent  to  these 
remarks,  she  was  disappointed.  Mr.  Kennedy  coldly  regretted 
she  was  not  to  be  persuaded,  and  left  her.  After  this  Sybil's 
tears  and  entreaties  proved  wholly  unavailing.  Miss  Glyn  sat 
in  her  room  with  her  bonnet  on,  waiting  for  the  carriage,  which 
had  to  be  fetched  two  miles  off,  fanning  herself  with  her  pocket- 
handkerchief,  declaring  she  was  quite  cool,  quite  calm,  and  not 
the  least  angry,  though  it  was  absurd  to  suppose  she  would 
tolerate  Mr.  Smith's  impertinence. 

When  the  carriage  came  at  length,  and  two  hours  elapsed 
before  Narcisse  returned  with  it,  Miss  Glyn  took  her  leave  with 
the  stateliness  of  an  ambassador  going  away  before  a  declara- 
tion of  war  between  two  rival  powers,  and  in  true  courtly  and 
diplomatic  language  assured  her  brother-in-law  that  her  affection 
and  regard  for  him  were  as  strong  as  ever.  Mr.  Kennedy  heard 
her  civilly,  bade  her  a  polite  adieu,  but  did  not  press  her  to  prom- 
ise a  speedy  return.  Sybil  noticed  it,  and  said  a  little  anx- 
iously, as  her  aunt's  carriage  drove  away, 

"Aunt  has  promised  to  come  back." 

"So  much  the  better,  my  dear,"  calmly  said  Mr.  Kennedy; 
and  thus  Mr.  Smith  virtually  expelled  Miss  Glyn,  and  Mrs. 
Mush  remained  mistress  of  the  field,  without  having  so  much  as 
struck  a  blow. 

"I  suppose  that  horrid  man  will  never  go  away,"  thought 
Sybil;  but  in  this  she  was  mistaken,  though  the  manner  of  his 
going  took  her  as  much  by  surprise  as  that  of  his  arrival. 


Sybil's  second  love.  27 


CHAPTER    IV 


"  Mas.  Mush,  I  have  found  out  who  Mr.  Smith  is,"  eagerly 
said  Sybil. 

Mrs.  Mush,  who  was  comfortably  seated  in  the  garden  read- 
ing her  paper,  and  enjoying  the  beauty  and  the  freshness  of  the 
morning,  turned  round  and  said  composedly — 

"  Indeed !  "  but  she  put  no  question. 

Sybil  felt  proyoked.  These  calm  ways  of  Mrs.  Mush's  pro- 
voked her;  they  kept  her  at  a  greater  distance  than  all  Miss 
Glyn's  sternness.  You  can  brave  or  soften  wrath  ;  you  cannot 
conquer  indifference — least  of  all,  that  which  is  grafted  on 
prudence.  It  may  be  that  at  heart  Mrs.  Mush  was  just  as  inquis- 
itive as  Sybil  concerning  the  enigmatic  Mr.  Smith ;  but  Mrs. 
Mush  liked  Saint  Vincent,  and  its  master,  and  Sybil ;  she  liked, 
too,  the  thought  of  having  at  last  found  a  resting-place  ;  for  Mrs. 
Mush  was  poor,  and  for  the  last  fifteen  years  had  been  visiting 
her  friends — so  all  these  reasons  combined  kept  her  silent,  and 
that  silence  and  discretion  combined  rendered  her  highly  ac- 
ceptable to  Mr.  Kennedy.  Sybil,  indeed,  was  any  thing  but 
charmed  with  this  reserve,  but  in  the  present  instance  the  wish 
of  imparting  her  discovery  proved  stronger  than  her  annoyance 
at  Mrs.  Mush's  want  of  curiosity. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  triumphantly,  "  I  know  who  Mr.  Smith  is — 
he  is  the  old  man  of  the  sea." 

"  What  put  that  into  your  'ead,  Miss  ?  "  asked  a  sharp  voice 
behind  her. 

Sybil  turned  round  in  some  confusion,  and  saw  the  long 
lanky  figure  of  Mr.  Smith  emerging  from  behind  some  tall  shrubs. 

"  I  suppose  young  ladies  think  everybody  old,"  resume' 1  Mr. 
Smith,  more  erood-humoredly — he  was  not  familiar  with  the 
Arabian  Nights — "  but  what  have  I  to  do  with  the  sea  '.  " 

"  Oh  !  nothing,"  hastily  said  Svbil.  "  It  was  my  nonsense, 
Mr.  Smith." 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Smith,  walking  away.  "Girls  live  on 
nonsense,  I  do  believe." 

Sybil  remained  rather  abashed  at  this  reproof,  and  resolved 
to  be  veiy  stately  and  dignified  with  Mr.  Smith  at  dinner,  and 
keep  him  at  a  distance  once  for  all.  She  was  spared  the 
trouble  of  doing  so.  Mr.  Smith  did  not  appear  at  dinner.  He 
was  looked  for  in  his  room,  at  the  mill,  in  the  grounds,  in  Saint 


28  SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOYE. 

Yincent  even,  but  Mr.  Smith  had  vanished.  Mr.  Kennedy 
seemed  much  perturbed  at  his  disappearance,  especially  when  it 
was  discovered  that  his  carpet-bag  too  was  gone,  but  he  said 
nothing.  The  next  morning,  however,  when  Sybil  came  down 
to  breakfast,  she  learned  from  Mrs.  Mush  that  Mr.  Kennedy  had 
left  at  five  o'clock,  without  saying  where  he  was  going  or  when 
he  would  return. 

"  But  he  has  three  gentlemen  coming  to  dinner !  "  incredu- 
lously exclaimed  Sybil. 

Mrs.  Mush  informed  her  that  Mr.  Kennedy  had  sent  an 
apology. 

"  That  horrid  Mr.  Smith  is  the  cause  of  it,"  indignantly  cried 
Sybil. 

"  I  believe  that  is  the  postman,"  said  Mrs.  Mush,  looking 
out  of  that  dining-room  window  which  commanded  a  view  of 
the  gate. 

Sybil  jumped  out,  and  forgot  Mr.  Smith  and  her  wrongs,  for 
suppose  the  postman  should  bring  her  a  letter  from  Blanche 
Cains.  She  flew  out  of  the  room.  In  a  second  she  was  at  the 
gate,  and  Mrs.  Mush,  who  stood  in  the  window  watching  her, 
saw  her  snatch  the  letter  from  the  slow  postman's  hand,  then 
turn  round,  flushed  and  triumphant,  and  hold  it  aloft  like  a 
prize,  then  run  away  with  it  and  vanish  in  the  garden. 

"  Happy  little  simpleton,"  thought  Mrs.  Mush,  with  a  smile 
and  a  sigh. 

And  Sybil  was  happy ;  her  affections  were  warm  and  ardent, 
and  these  letters  were  events  in  her  young  life.  She  could  not 
have  read  them  with  any  one  by,  and  she  knew  that  every  one, 
Mrs.  Mush  as  well  as  the  rest,  laughed  at  her  passion  for  Blanche 
Cains.  She  did  not  care,  not  she,  but  still  it  was  pleasanter  to 
be  alone,  and  to  feel  no  unkind  or  skeptical  glance  watching 
her.  Far  away  from  both  garden  and  abbey,  she  now  sought 
in  the  grounds  a  spot  both  solitary  and  congenial :  a  grassy  hol- 
low sheltered  from  the  north  wind  by  trees  which  the  sea-blast 
had  stunted  and  warped  from  their  birth,  and  to  the  west  facing 
the  broad  glassy  ocean,  which  spread  for  miles  and  miles  away. 
Here  Sybil  often  brought  her  troubles  and  her  joys,  and  here 
she  now  flung  herself  breathless  and  panting  on  the  dewy  grass, 
and  with  a  beating  heart  read  the  letter  of  her  friend.  Miss 
Cains,  though  the  object  of  a  romantic  friendship,  was  not  a  ro- 
mantic young  lady,  and  never  indulged  herself  or  her  friend  in 
romantic  epistles.     Her  letter  ran  thus  : 


sybil's  second  love.  29 

"Dear  Sybil, 
"  This  must  not  be  a  long  scribble.  I  am  wretched,  that's 
all,  and  Miss  Blunt  worries  me  to  death.  I  am  sick  of  life  at 
times,  aud  at  others  I  vow  I  will  go  through  it.  You  writo 
very  pretty  letters,  but.  I  haven't  the  time  to  do  it.  I  say  again 
that  I  am  sick  of  life,  which  is  more  than  being  bored  with  a 
Mr.  Smith.  Why  don't  you  make  Mr.  Kennedy  take  him  away 
— I  would.  I  find  this  is  not  to  be  a  letter,  but  a  note.  I  have 
been  interrupted  seven  times  since  I  began,  and  must  leave  off. 
I  wish  I  had  an  ark  like  Noah's  dove,  but  I  have  been  cast 
upon  this  horrible  Blunt  wilderness,  and  must  bear  my  lot. 
Good-by.  God  bless  you,  dearest,  and  write  often.  Your  let- 
ters are  my  only  comfort. 

"  Yours, 

"  Blanche  Cains." 

Miss  Cains  wrote  a  large,  bold  hand,  and  these  few  lines 
covered  the  four  pages  of  her  note  paper. 

"Poor  dear  Blanche!"  thought  Sybil,  with  a  swelling 
heart,  "  I  must  ask  papa  to  let  me  have  her  here.  He  almost 
promised  it,  only  I  cannot  let  her  have  aunt's  room.  I  shall  give 
her  the  green  room  near  mine.  I  shall  get  it  ready  at  once, 
and  so  when  papa  comes  back,  I  shall  write  and  ask  her  to  come 
and  give  up  Miss  Blunt.    How  can  they  be  so  unkind  to  her ! " 

But,  alas  !  for  all  planning.  Sybil  got  the  green  room  ready, 
but  days,  weeks  even,  went  by,  and  Mr.  Kennedy  neither  wrote 
nor  came  back.  Sybil  forgot  her  friend's  troubles,  and  felt 
alarmed  and  wretched.  She  was  convinced  that  her  father  was 
either  ill  or  in  trouble,  and  that  Mr.  Smith  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  She  said  so  to  Mrs.  Mush,  who  laughed  at  her  ;  but  Syl>- 
il  persisted — moreover,  she  did  not  think  Mrs.  Mush's  laugh 
either  frank  or  real.  "Something  has  happened,  and  Mrs. 
Mush  knows  of  it,"  thought  Sybil.  A  fact,  slight  in  itself,  con- 
firmed this  suspicion. 

Now  and  then  Mrs.  Mush  received  an  Irish  paper.  At  first 
she  lent  this  paper  to  Sybil,  but  suddenly  she  ceased  doing  8<  •. 
\Yhen  Sybil  asked  to  borrow  it,  Mrs.  Mush  coolly  replied, 

"  My  dear,  newspapers  are  not  meant  for  young  ladies." 

Now  this  answer  would  have  been  in  character  if  it  had  been 
uttered  by  Miss  Glyn,  a  pattern  of  decorum,  but  it  did  not  sound 
true  when  coming  from  Mrs.  Mush,  who,  in  her  free  and  casy 
way,  was  wont  to  declare  "  that  propriety  had  been  invented  by 


30  SYBIL  S   SECOND   LOVE. 

the  improper  people,"  and  Sybil  was  incredulous.  Nay  more, 
she  concluded  that  there  was  something  in  the  newspaper  which 
seriously  affected  her  father's  interests  or  prospects,  and  which 
he,  out  of  his  great  love  and  kindness,  wished  to  keep  from  her. 
And  therefore,  hearing  Mrs.  Mush's  equivocal  replies,  and  see- 
ing her  equivocal  attitude,  the  poor  child's  fears  were  all  con- 
firmed, and  her  heart  beat  with  that  nameless  terror  of  the  un- 
known evil,  which  is  harder  to  bear  than  the  certain  and  clearly- 
seen  calamity.  She  applied  to  Mrs.  Mush  for  comfort;  but 
Mrs.  Mush  had  none  to  give  her,  for  she  flatly  denied  the  reality 
of  Sybil's  troubles,  and  preserved  the  most  obstinate  cheer- 
fulness. 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  her  one  afternoon  that 
Sybil  came  up  to  her  room  to  inform  her  she  was  wretched,  and 
that  she  was  sure,  she  was,  Mr.  Smith  had  inflicted  some  deadly 
wrong  on  her  father — "  nonsense  !  Do  you  want  to  get  your- 
self into  a  low  fever  by  the  time  Mr.  Kennedy  comes  back  ? " 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  Mrs.  Mush,  I  cannot  be  like  you,"  almost 
austerely  replied  Sybil.  "  I  do  believe  you  are  never  dull,"  she 
added,  reproachfully. 

"  Dull !  "  cried  Mrs.  Mush,  with  a  joyous  face,  and  a  hearty, 
cheery  laugh,  that  scouted  the  very  idea.  "  I  should  think 
not !  I  like  life  too  well  to  quarrel  with  it.  I  like  it,  and  I 
enjoy  it.  Of  all  wretched  impostors,  suicides  are  the  worst,  in 
my  eyes.  A  set  of  scape-graces,  who  run  away  into  death.  I 
never  did  like  '  Mornings  in  Churchyards,'  nor  «  Old  Mortality,' 
nor  "  Gray's  Elegy",'  not  I." 

"  Ah  !  but  we  must  die  !  "  sighed  Sybil,  with  a  wise  shake 
of  her  young  head. 

*'  Just  so.  Therefore  let  us  live.  We  are  sure  to  die — let 
us  live,  I  say.  I  think  living  a  noble  thing — a  fine  thing — and 
I  take  particular  pleasure  in  it.  I  like  the  waking  and  being 
alive,  the^ eating  and  drinking — there,  you  are  shocked — young 
ladies  neither  eat  nor  drink,  and  being  alive,  the  walking  and 
being  alive  ;  and  I  like  the  sleeping  and  the  dreaming  too.  In 
short,  it  is  a  glorious  invention ! " 

"  Oh  !  I  feel  so  too  sometimes,"  said  Sybil,  gravely  ;  "  but 
you  know,  Mrs.  Mush,  life  is  full  of  disappointments."  " 

"  Wait  till  you  are  forty-five,  my  dear,  and  then  you  will 
like  it  rather  better  than  you  do  now,"  gayly  said  Mrs.  Mush. 

Forty-five  !  Sybil's  open  countenance  declared  she  could 
form  no  conception  of  so  remote  a  period  of  life. 


Sybil's  second  love.  31 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  kindly  continued  Mrs.  Mush,  '  happi- 
ness is  no  abstract,  unchanging  truth.  What  would  make  you 
happy  now,  might  make  you  wretched  ten  years  hence.  Youtli 
is  made  to  wish  and  dream,  and  life  to  deny  youth's  dream  and 
wishes.  And  thank  God  that  it  is  so,  else  what  a  world  of  un- 
quietness  and  passion  and  restlessness  would  this  be.  You  say 
I  am  never  dull — I  will  add  that  I  am  happy  ;  but  when  I  was 
seventeen,  how  I  would  have  scorned  my  present  happiness, 
how  I  would  have  annihilated  it  if  I  could !  Truly  I  may  bless 
Providence  that  I  was  denied  my  will  at  that  early  season,  and 
compelled  to  follow  a  road  I  hated — no  pleasant  one,  my  dear, 
but  a  path  full  of  briers,  and  where  many  a  time  I  stopped  foot- 
sore and  bleeding." 

"  Oh  !  do  tell  me  all  about  it,  Mrs.  Mush,"  cried  Sybil,  who 
had  heard  that  Mrs.  Mush  had  had  a  love-story,  and  been  com- 
pelled to  many  a  man  she  did  not  like. 

"  No,  my  dear,  it  would  do  you  no  good.  Second-hand 
experience  avails  naught.  Besides,  I  disapprove  of  making 
young  things  sad  and  wise  before  their  time.  You  have  a  ten- 
dency that  way  I  do  not  like  at  all.  You  are  always  poring 
over  books — I  never  read." 

"  Never,  Mrs.  Mush  ? " 

"  I  never  read  books — no,  thank  Heaven  !  What  are  books  ? 
— words.  Well,  I  can  have  words  without  books.  Besides, 
what  is  there  to  read  ? — poetry,  novels,  ethics,  history,  ect.  My 
dear,  I  have  poetry  when  I  open  my  window ;  a  novel  when  I 
watch  a  flirtation ;  philosophy  when  I  sit  in  my  chair  and  muse ; 
and  history  when  I  take  up  the  newspaper.  The  newspaper, 
my  dear,  is  simply  the  modern  epic  ;  there  is  every  thing  in  it 
— murder,  love,  revenge,  treason  too,  and  high  and  low  life. 
Oh  !  I  like  it  amazingly." 

"  The  newspaper  is  all  about  murders  and  accidents,"  pet- 
tishly said  Sybil. 

"Well,  I  do  not  like  accidents,"  replied  Mrs.  Mush  ;  "there 
is  no  meaning  in  them  ;  but,"  she  added,  confidentially,  "  I 
dearly  like  a  murder.  Of  course  I  do  not  wish  for  murders," 
she  continued,  in  the  tone  of  resigned  virtue;  "but  when  there 
is  one,  why,  I  like  it.  It  is  human  nature.  And  then  there  is 
a  thought  that  haunts  me — it  is  of  the  murderer,  whose  hand  is 
free  from  guilt,  and  has  never  had,  and  will  never  have,  but 
might  have  the  red  stain.  Oh  !  you  may  open  your  eyes  till 
they  grow  round  again  with  amazement.     It  is  all  very  well  tor 


32  Sybil's  second  love. 

you  to  shudder  with  horror  because  that  man  has  committed  a 
murder.  I  shudder  to  think  how  many  there  are  around  me 
who  would  murder  if  they  could,  or  if  they  were  tempted. 
That  unknown  world  which  each  man  bears  within  him  is  a 
terrible  thing,  let  me  tell  you.  To  think  that  if  this  affectionate 
papa  had  a  little  money  less,  he  would  turn  wild  and  drown 
his  children,  as  we  drown  kittens,  because  they  are  in  the  way ; 
or  to  imagine  yon  henpecked  husband  jealous  as  an  Othello, 
and  as  pitiless.  I  tell  you,  child,  there  is  a  terrible  philosophy 
in  it." 

Sybil  began  to  feel  nervous  and  uncomfortable  at  Mrs. 
Mush's  language.  Moreover,  that  lady's  fluency  produced  its 
usual  effect — it  overpowered  her.  Mrs.  Mush  was  not  one  of 
those  pitiless  talkers  who  strangle  their  neighbor's  speech  in  its 
very  birth  ;  but,  as  Mrs.  Glyn  said,  "  she  circumvented  you." 
And  so  she  did ;  she  had  something  to  say  on  every  topic,  and 
you  could  not  start  one,  but  Mrs.  Mush  was  ready  to  take  hold 
of  it  and  ride  her  hobby,  dragging  you  after  her  through  thick 
and  thin.  The  philosophic  country  she  was  now  traversing  was 
dreary  in  the  extreme  to  Sybil.  She  took  no  pleasure  in  pos- 
sible murderers,  and  shuddered  at  the  mere  suggestion.  Be- 
sides, she  wanted  comfort,  and  this  was  any  thing  but  consola- 
tory.    So  with  a  sigh  she  said, 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  and  air  papa's  room ;  perhaps  he  may 
come  to-night,  you  know." 

"  Ay,  do,  my  dear." 

Sybil  went ;  but  she  felt  nervous  and  unhappy.  Suppose 
Mr.  Smith  were  one  of  those  possible  murderers  Mrs.  Mush  had 
suggested,  and  suppose  her  father  had  been  made  away  with  by 
that  vulgar  man  with  the  sullen  black  eyes.  Her  heart  so  sick- 
ened at  the  thought,  that  she  could  not  endure  to  remain  in 
Mr.  Kennedy's  room — she  left  it  precipitately,  and  went  back  to 
Mrs.  Mush's ;  but  the  room  was  empty,  aud  Sybil  heard  Mrs. 
Mush  talking  to  Narcisse  in  the  garden.  Her  heart  beat,  a 
sudden  temptation  came  over  her.  She  looked  round  eagerly 
— one  of  Mrs.  Mush's  Irish  papers  lay  on  the  chair.  Sybil  did 
not  pause  to  think  about  the  right  or  wrong  of  her  actions ; 
with  a  trembling  hand,  and  sense  of  guilt  and  disobedience, 
she  seized  the  Moonagh  Herald,  and  glanced  eagerly  over  its 
columns.  Her  heart  gave  a  great  throb  as  in  the  very  midst  of 
a  leader  she  read  these  words :  "  The  evidence  of  Mr.  James 
Kennedy  is  significant,  though  mysterious.     We  feel  sure,  in- 


Sybil's  second  love.  33 

deed,  that  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Dermot — "  Sybil  read  no  more, 
for  Mrs.  Mush,  who  now  came  in,  took  the  paper  out  of  her 
hand. 

"  So  you  do  like  the  newspapers  after  all  ? "  said  the  elder 
lady. 

Their  eyes  met — eager  and  searching  on  one  side,  cool  and 
guarded  on  the  other. 

"  Mrs.  Mush  ! "  cried  Sybil,  too  much  agitated  to  feel  con- 
fused at  being  thus  detected,  "  what  is  it  ? — tell  me  ? — what  can 
it  be?" 

"  My  dear,  what  can  you  mean  ? "  composedly  asked  Mrs. 
Mush. 

"  You  know,"  excitedly  said  Sybil,  "  there  is  something 
dreadful  about  that  Mr.  Smith  and  my  father.  I  am  sure  that 
Mr.  Smith  is  a  thief,  who  has  been  victimizing  papa  and  that 
poor  Mr.  Dermot." 

"  There,  there,"  soothingly  said  Mrs.  Mush. 

"  A  thief,  if  he  is  not  worse,"  pursued  Sybil ;  "  why  did  the 
newspapers  say  the  '  unfortunate  Mr.  Dermot  ? '  " 

"  Pussy,  Pussy,"  said  a  cheer}'  voice  in  the  garden  below. 

Sybil  flew  to  the  window,  and  saw  her  father's  handsome 
face  looking  up  at  her  from  below.  In  a  moment  she  was  out 
of  the  room,  down  the  stairs,  and  in  his  arms,  hugging  him 
with  all  her  might,  and  scarcely  able  to  speak  for  joyT 


CHAPTER     V. 


"Oh!  why  did  you  not  write  ?"  she  cried  ;  "now  confess, 
it  was  that  horrid  Mr.  Smith  would  not  let  yon." 

"Poor  Mr.  Smith,"  gaylysaid  Mr.  Kennedy;  "why,  his  last 
words  were,  '  His  respects  to  miss.' " 

"Pity  there  was  no  letter  II  to  leave  out,"  saucily  said 
Sybil ;  "  what  was  it  he  did  to  Mr.  Dermot  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Kennedy's  face  assumed  a  vacant  expression. 

"  Dermid  ! "  he  repeated,  "  what  Dermid  ?  " 

"  Dermot — that  Mr.  Dermot  he  was  raving  about." 

Mr.  Kennedy  laughed. 

"Ask  him  when  he  comes  here,"  he  said,  "I  dare  say  ho 
will  tell  you." 

9* 


34  sybil's  second  love. 

Sybil's  face  Fell. 

"Then  lie  is  coming  ajrain?"  slie  said. 

Mr.  Kennedy  did  not  answer  this. 

"  How  has  she  behaved,  Mrs.  Mush  ? "  he  asked,  addressing 
that  lady,  who  now  joined  them. 

"  She  has  fretted,  Mr.  Kennedy." 

"  Has  she  ?  "  and  Mr.  Kennedy  looked  down  at  Sybil  with  a 
fondness  which  might  ever  be  in  his  heart,  but  was  not  always 
in  his  looks.  He  seemed  unusually  tender  of  his  little  daughter 
this  afternoon.  She  kept  close  to  him,  as  if  she  feared  he 
would  escape  her  again,  and  he  let  her  lock  her  arms  within  his, 
and  hang  upon  him  without  demur. 

"But  how  did  you  come  home?"  suddenly  asked  Sybil, 
struck  with  the  fact  that  her  father  seemed  to  have  dropped 
from  the  clouds ;  "  not  on  foot,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  playfully  asked  Mr.  Kennedy ;  "  in  the  novels 
I  read  when  I  "was  a  boy,  the  hero  was  always  on  foot.  Some- 
times he  carried  a  knapsack.  I  do  not,  which  is  an  improve- 
ment, you  see." 

Sybil  saw  that  her  father  had  come  on  foot  on  purpose,  and 
that  he  was  not  to  be  questioned  concerning  the  spot  where  he 
had  been  all  the  time  he  was  away. 

This  might  be  the  case,  or  it  might  not,  for  during  dinner- 
time Mr.  Kennedy  informed  the  ladies  that  he  had  been  visiting 
the  south  of  France. 

"  With  Mr.  Smith  ?  "  said  Sybil. 

"Pussy,  you  think  too  much  of  Mr.  Smith.  If  he  but  knew 
it  he  would  grow  quite  vain.  No,  I  was  not  with  Mr.  Smith, 
who  went  off  to  England,  I  believe,  but  I  shall  not  fail  telling 
him,  when  I  write,  how  much  he  is  in  your  thoughts." 

Sybil  pouted  and  tossed  her  head,  but  her  father  drew  her 
on  his  knee,  and  pacified  her  with  a  kiss. 

Dinner  was  over.  Mr.  Kennedy  was  in  excellent  spirits. 
This  seemed  the  proper  time  for  preferring  a  request  that  lay 
at  Sybil's  heart.     So,  in  her  most  persuasive  accents  she  said, 

"  Dear  Blanche  is  so  unhappy  at  the  school.     I  had  a  letter 
from  her  the  day  you  left.     It  made  me  so  angry." 
"  What !  angry  with  your  angelic  friend  ? " 
"  Oh  !  "  cried  Sybil,  amazed  at  the  suggestion,  "  no,  but  with 
Miss  Blunt,  who  is  so  ill-natured." 

"  No  rebellion,  Pussy.  The  angelic  Blanche  does  not  state 
the  case  fairly,  IT  be  bound." 


SYBIL'S   SECOND   LOVE.  35 

"  Indeed  she  does — and  I  can  ask  lier  to  come  and  sec  me, 
can  I  not  ?  "  added  Sybil. 

"No,"  almost  sharply  replied  her  father,  and,  putting  her 
down,  he  rose  and  left  the  room. 

Sybil  felt  much  inclined  to  cry. 

"  Oh  !  Mrs.  Mush,"  she  cried,  "  I  am  miserable  ! ' ' 

"  What !  with  your  father  home  safe  and  sound?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  I  ought  to  be  happy,  I  know,  but  I  do  love 
Blanche,"  said  Sybil,  with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  "  and  every  one 
is  against  her,  even  papa,  who  has  never  seen  her.  I  do  believe 
I  shall  never  see  her  again,  and  I  have  not  even  her  photo- 
graph." 

"  Oh  !  to  be  sure,  there  would  be  comfort  in  that." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  paint !  "  continued  Sybil  with  a  sigh. 

"  And  so  you  do,  you  little  goose  !  " 

"  Indeed  no,  Mrs.  Mush." 

"  My  dear,  we  are  all  painters,  though  sometimes  we  do  not 
know  it.  I  tell  you  we  paint  daily,  from  morning  till  night. 
We  are  landscape  painters  and  historical  painters,  from  Adam 
and  Eve  in  the  garden,  down  to  the  account  of  the  last  battle. 
Why,  we  cannot  hear  a  thing  mentionod,  but  we  paint  it  straight. 
Conceive,  if  you  can,  a  world  without  images — a  void  awful  as 
space,  still  as  death.  Why,  even  that  is  an  image — Milton's 
chaos.  Why,  I  could  not  live  a  human  life,  if  I  had  not  that 
medium  between  myself  and  the  outer  world.  So,  I  am  a  painter, 
and  you  are  a  painter  too." 

"  Well,"  confidentially  said  Sybil,  "  I  do  see  her  face,  when 
I  shut  my  eyes,  so.     Oh  !  I  see  it  now  quite  plain,  Mrs.  Mush." 
"Of  course  you  do,  and  the  dimple  in  her  chin,  and  the 
wave  in  her  hair." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  quizzing  me  now  ;  and  I  am  so  unhappy  !  I 
think  I  shall  go  and  write  to  her." 

"  Do,  my  dear,  it  will  be  miserable,  but  you  will  like  it." 
Sybil  went  up  to  her  room;  but  as  she  passed  the  door  of 
the  room  she  had  destined  to  her  friend,  she  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  entering  it.  It  was  a  low  large  room,  fur- 
nished in  a  heavy  style,  that  gave  it  a  sober  and  quiet  look.  Its 
two  deep  windows,  around  which  a  vine  hung  outside  in  green 
festoons,  let  in  but  little  light,  and  that  little  was  absorbed  by 
the  gloomy  furniture.  Green  damask  curtains  fell  from  the  ceil- 
ing to  the  floor  in  massive  folds  around  the  lofty  bed,  hence  the 
room  had  received  its  name. 


36  Sybil's  secoxd  loye. 

It  was  a  melancholy  apartment  enough,  but  it  was  more  ro- 
mantic than  the  other  rooms,  and  Sybil  had  decreed  that  it 
should  be  Blanche's.  It  was  also  a  corner  room,  and  either  of 
its  two  windows  afforded  a  different  prospect. 

"  She  will  like  this,"  thought  Sybil,  going  to  one,  and  open- 
ing it  to  lean  out  on  the  wide  stone  ledge  ;  "  for  she  must  come 
— she  must !" 

Her  eye  wandered  with  admiration  over  the  broad  expanse 
of  country,  ending  in  a  cloudy  horizon.  It  was  a  vast  and  mel- 
ancholy landscape,  but  it  was  very  fine  in  the  glow  of  the  set- 
ting sun. 

"Blanche  will  dream  here,"  thought  Sybil,  "  and  she  will 
work  here." 

She  opened  the  other  window,  and  looked  down  at  the  small 
old-fashioned  garden,  whence  the  scent  of  roses  and  mignonette 
rose  very  sweetly  on  the  air. 

"  I  shall  lend  her  Dicky,"  thought  Sybil.  "  She  can  hang 
his  cage  here ;  but  as  she  does  not  like  the  trouble  of  birds,  I 
shall  come  and  feed  Dicky  myself  every  morning.  Poor  old 
Dicky  !     I  wonder  if  he  will  like  it  ? " 

This  was  a  very  doubtful  question,  and  whilst  Sybil  was 
turning  it  over,  her  father  pushed  open  the  door,  and"  entered 
the  room  unheard,  startling  her  with  a  "  Pussy  "  in  her  ear,  and 
a  hand  laid  upon  her  shoulder. 

Sybil  looked  around  with  a  smile,  which  another  smile  on 
his  handsome  face  kindly  answered. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked;  "dreaming  as 
usual,  Pussy  ? " 

Pussy  nodded. 

"Well,  little  housekeeper,  I  want  you  to  get  this  room  read  v 
for  to-nio-ht." 

"  Blanche  is  coming  !  "  cried  Sybil. 

"  Blanche  !  I  tell  you,  child,  I  do  not  want  that  young  lady." 

"  But  it  is  Blanche's  room,"  saucily  said  Sybil.  "  I  have 
given  it  to  her." 

Mr.  Kennedy  laughed. 

"  The  peerless  Blanche  must  do  without  it,  Pussy.  I  want 
the  green  room  for  your  Uncle  Edward." 

Sybil  raised  to  her  father's  face  a  look  of  much  amazement 
Never  before  that  day  had  she  heard  of  the  existence  of  her 
Uncle  Edward.  When  she  had  questioned  her  father  about  his 
family,  he  had  ever  replied,  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest. 


steil's  second  love.  37 

"  I  am  a  mushroom,  Pussy ;  aud  you  know  bow  mushrooms 
grow — anywhere  aud  anyhow." 

Miss  Glyn  had  not  been  more  communicative.  She  had 
spoken  of  the  Glyns,  their  ancient  descent  and  former  greatness, 
but  concerning  the  Kennedys  sbe  had  been  mute ;  and  Mrs. 
Mush,  when  questioned,  had  wandered  into  a  philosophic  flight, 
and  Sybil's  inner  conclusion  had  been  that  her  father  was  a 
foundling,  and  had  no  family  at  all.  Great,  therefore,  was  her 
surprise  to  hear  of  the  existence  of  this  new  brother.  She 
longed  to  question,  but  did  not  dare  to  do  so.  Mr.  Kennedy 
was  a  kind  and  indulgent  father ;  his  manners,  his  countenance, 
were  genial  and  open ;  he  looked  frank  amongst  men  ;  but  for 
all  that  few  people  knew  what  James  Kennedy  felt,  thought,  or 
did.  Thus,  though  Pussy  was  an  indulged  and  tenderly-loved 
daughter,  she  now  hesitatingly  ventured  on  a  timid, 

"  And  must  your  brother,  my  uncle,  have  this  room  ? " 

"  Yes,  Pussy,  he  must." 

"Papa,"  more  daringly  said  Sybil,  "what  is  mv  Uncle 
Edward  like?" 

"  You  will  see  him  this  evening,  child,"  he  carelessly  replied. 

"  But  you  might  tell  me  something  about  him  ;  if  you  stim- 
ulate my  curiosity,  I  shall  go  wild,  and  be  obliged  to  ask  my 
new  uncle  all  about  himself,  and  that  will  be  awkward,  will  it 
not?" 

Mr.  Kennedy  laughed,  and  pinched  his  daughter's  cheek, 
but  he  allowed  her  curiosity  to  remain  unsatisfied,  for  he  walked 
out  of  the  room  without  a  word.  Sybil  felt  half  wild  with 
curiosity,  and  at  once  ran  up  to  Mrs.  Mush.  She  entered  that 
lady's  room  in  a  breathless  state,  and  exclaimed,  in  her  quick, 
impulsive  way, 

"  Mrs.  Mush,  what  shall  /  do  ? " 

"  I  do  not  at  all  know,  my  dear,"  answered  Mrs.  Mush 
airily  ;  "  you  may  be  going  up  in  a  balloon,  for  all  I  can  1011." 

"  Oh !  dear,  Mrs.  Mush,  do  not  be  quizzing  me." 

"  My  love,  I  am  not  quizzing,  but  you  look  fit  for  a  pair  of 
wings.  And  a  very  pretty  little  Psyche  you  would  make,  lot  me 
tell  you." 

Sybil  blushed,  and  as  she  dearly  liked  admiration,  and  as 
Mrs.  Mush  evidently  admired  her  just  then,  she  gave  that  lady  a 
gracious  and  benignant  look,  then  resumed,  more  sedately  : 

"  Mrs.  Mush,  there  is  an  uncle  of  mine  coming  to-night,  and 
1  never  heard  about  him  before  the  last  ten  minutes." 


38  Sybil's  second  love. 

"  Did  you  not  ? " 

"  No — never.     Did  you  ? " 

Mrs.  Mush  paused  before  she  answered. 

"  My  love,  I  have  a  wretched  memory." 

"lam  quite  bewildered,"  continued  Sybil ;  "  it  seems  incred 
ible  to  find  out  new  relations  so.  I  had  no  suspicion  of  it,  and 
lo  and  behold,  there  is  an  uncle ! " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  make  much  of  him  when  you  get  him. 
Relations  are  another  beautiful  invention — the  result  of  marriage, 
and  that  is  a  living  miracle  in  my  eyes.  Who  ever  dreamed  of 
two  people  living  together,  unless  they  are  man  and  wife,  or  re- 
lated by  blood  ?  Friendship  is  all  very  fine,  but  there  must  be 
blood." 

"  But  he  is  quite  a  stranger  to  me,"  argued  Sybil,  unable  to 
lose  this  view  of  the  question.  "  I  cannot  think  of  him  as  an 
uncle,  and  I  did  hope  you  would  give  me  some  account  of  him." 

"  My  dear,  no  one  knows  much  of  your  father's  family.  He 
came  and  married  my  cousin,  but  he  was  like  a  romantic  bride- 
groom in  a  ballad — he  came  all  alone,  and  I  will  add  that  he 
was  not  fond  of  answering  questions  concerning  his  pedigree." 

"  And  he  is  to  have  Blanche's  room  !  "  indignantly  said  Sybil. 

"  Oh !  dear,  that  is  very  bad." 

"  But  he  shall  not  have  Dicky." 

"  That  will  be  a  severe  punishment,  indeed  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Mush,  I  shall  dislike  him." 

Mrs.  Mush  had  no  doubt  about  it;  this  unexpected  agree- 
ment soothed  Sybil's  feelings  considerably,  and  she  had  the 
green  room  prepared  for  her  uncle  with  tolerable  equanimity. 
She  was  even  lively  and  cheerful,  and  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
extremely  inquisitive  and  anxious  when  night  came  on.  But 
after  being  vexed  at  his  existence,  Sybil  was  doomed  to  be 
vexed  at  her  uncle's  non-appearance.  The  whole  family  sat  up 
till  twelve  in  vain — Mr.  Kennedy's  brother  did  not  come. 

"  I  shall  sit  up,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  "  but  you  may  go  to 
bed,  Pussy." 

Pussy  obeyed,  but  she  slept  indifferently  that  night.  Every 
hour  she  kept  starting  up,  thinking  she  heard  a  loud  knock  at 
the  gate,  and  even  a  strange  step  firm  and  strong  up  the  staircase. 

"  Has  uncle  arrived  ? "  cried  Sybil,  when  she  met  her  father 
the  next  morning. 

"  No,"  he  coldly  replied  ;  and  as  he  turned  away,  Sybil  saw 
that  he  looked  harassed  and  worn. 


sybil's  second  love.  39 

She  felt  amazed.  She  thought,  she  hoped  that  her  uncle 
would  arrive  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  relieve  her  father 
from  his  anxiety — but  he  did  not;  nor  did  he  come  the  next 
day,  nor  the  next  either. 

Sybil  got  vexed  and  annoyed.  The  constant  expectation 
worked  her  up  into  a  fever.  To  her  father  she  could  not  speak, 
for  he  would  net  tolerate  the  subject ;  and  Mrs.  Mush  had  no 
comfort  to  give  her. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  gayly,  "  there  are  beings  whose  exist- 
ence is  confined  to  our  imagination.  It  is  there  they  have  a 
local  habitation  and  a  name.  James  Keunedy  may  have 
dreamed  he  had  a  brother,  or  he  may  have  dreamed  he  spoke  to 
you  about  such  a  person.  I  believe  there  is  a  philosophic  sys- 
tem according  to  which  there  is  no  such  thing  as  substance,  but 
every  thing  lies  in  appearance.  Who  knows  but  this  invisible 
uncle  of  yours  may  be  part  and  parcel  of  that  philosophy  ?  " 

Now,  there  was  something  in  this  speech,  or,  rather,  in  the 
tone  and  look  with  which  it  was  uttered,  that  struck  Sybil. 
However  paradoxical  Mrs.  Mush's  flights  might  be,  she  had  an 
Irish  vehemence  of  manner  that  bore  with  it  the  conviction  of 
her  earnestness.  She  might  not  think  five  minutes  later,  as  she 
thought  then  ;  but  whilst  she  spoke,  it  was  her  real  sentiments 
that  she  uttered.  Now  it  seemed  to  Sybil  that  these  fantastic 
remarks  about  her  Uncle  Edward's  forming  part  of  this  unsub- 
stantial philosophy,  wrere  uttered  rather  to  say  something,  than 
because  Mrs.  Mush  had  any  thing  to  say. 

"  Mrs.  Mush,"  she  said,  very  earnestly,  "  have  you  not  been 
struck  with  papa's  looks  these  last  few  days  ?  " 

"  How  so  ?  "  slowly  asked  Mrs.  Mush. 

"I  mean  with  his  angry  looks,  Mrs.  Mush.  I  am  afraid  he 
has  lost  money.  And  I  do  believe  that  Mr.  Smith  is  at  the 
bottom  of  it." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  slowly  said  Mrs.  Mush,  and  she  gazed 
out  of  the  window  on  the  green  landscape  and  blue  sky,  and 
stood  thus  apparently  in  deep  abstraction;  but  it  seemed  t>> 
Sybil  especially  for  the  purpose  that  their  looks  should  not 
meet. 

Sybil's  heart  began  to  beat.  Ever  since  he  had  spoken  of 
her  uncle's  coming,  her  father  had  been  an  altered  man.  He 
had  been  restless,  anxious,  and  irritable.  There  had  been  a 
change  too  over  Mrs.  Mush,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  Sybil,  a  Becret 
quarrel  between  that  lady  and  her  father.     Moreover,  when- 


40  Sybil's  second  love. 

ever  Sybil  attacked  the  absent  Mr.  Smith,  and  laid  any  blame  to 
him,  Mrs.  Mush  took  his  part.  Arid,  indeed,  Sybil's  fancies, 
when  they  took  that  direction,  were  of  the  strangest  kind. 

"  Mrs.  Mush,"  she  said  to  her  one  morning,  just  after  the 
postman  had  brought  in  a  packet  of  letters,  which  made  her 
father  look  very  grave,  "  I  know  why  my  Uncle  Edward  docs 
not  come — he  stays  to  watch  Mr.  Smith." 

"  To  watch  Mr.  Smith,  indeed ! "  said  Mrs.  Mush,  in  rather 
an  odd  tone ;  "  why,  your  uncle  is  coming  to-night." 

Sybil  looked  incredulous. 

"  Mrs.  Mush,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not  believe  it ;  besides  I  am 
tired  of  telling  Denise  to  make  his  bed." 

"  My  dear,  Denise  must  make  it  once  more.  Mr.  Kennedy 
will  have  him  in  the  green  room,  though  mine  would  do  very 
well.  Ah  !  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  am  going  away  to-day. 
Mrs.  Steele  wants  me." 

"  You  are  going  away,  and  Mrs.  Steele  wants  you  ? "  ex- 
claimed Sybil,  all  amazed ;  "  and  who  is  Mrs.  Steele  ?" 

"  My  dear,  you  have  heard  me  mention  her  again  and 
again;  but  I  suppose  you  mean,  what  is  she  like?  Well,  my 
dear,  Mrs.  Steele  is  like  her  house,  and  her  house  is  like  her. 
It  is  large  and  sensible,  and  every  thing  in  it  is  substantial,  pre- 
cise, and  good.  Her  clocks  go  as  well  as  the  sun ;  and  Mrs. 
Steele  thinks,  though  she  does  not  say  so,  that  they  go  rather 
better.  Then  she  is  such  a  woman  for  intellect  and  logic.  The 
last  time  I  called  I  found  her  catechising  Sarah  the  housemaid 
on  her  most  imprudent  flirtation  with  the  footman.  '  Now  let 
us  argue  like  rational  beings,'  she  said — it  was  quite  beautiful 
to  hear  her." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Mush,  what  does  she  want  you  for?" 

"  My  dear,  I  will  tell  you  in  strict  confidence — Mrs.  Steele 
wants  to  improve  me!  Mrs.  Steele  has  improved  all  her  ac- 
quaintances, and  has  no  one  left  to  keep  her  hand  in.  She  has 
a  daughter  to  be  sure,  but  who  would  think  of  improving  Ade- 
lina  Steele  ?  She  is  a  most  admirable  young  woman.  She  is 
so  benevolent,  that  she  belongs  to  the  Flannel  Petticoat  Society, 
and  so  modest  that  she  suppresses  the  word  petticoat.  Her 
manners  have  the  polish  of  marble  and  the  temperature  of  ice. 
Then  her  profile  is  Grecian,  and  cannot  be  matched  out  of  the 
Vatican.  In  short,  it  is  quite  beautiful  to  sit  and  look  at  her 
sideways." 

Tears  rushed  to  Sybil's  eyes. 


Sybil's  second  love.  41 

"  And  so,"  she  said,  "  you  leave  me  here  alone  with  my 
father  and  my  new  uncle,  and  that  for  people  whom  you  laugh 
at,  Mrs.  Mush." 

"  Child,  do  not  hlame  me,"  said  Mrs.  Mush,  with  a  complete 
change  of  manner,  and  speaking  with  some  bitterness  of  look 
and  accent ;  "  your  father  asked  me  here,  and  gave  me  to  un- 
derstand that  this  wa3  to  be  a  visit,  not  of  days,  or  of  months, 
but  of  years — and  now  he  bids  me  go,  and  go  I  must.  I  could 
only  interfere,  and  I  must  be  off,  and  begin  the  old  life  of  wan- 
dering." 

Sybil  turned  scarlet. 

"  Is  it  on  account  of  my  uncle  that  you  must  go  ! "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

Mrs.  Mush  was  silent. 

"  Then  I  shall  hate  him  !  "  cried  Sybil  excitedly. 

"  My  dear,  do  not ;  your  uncle  is  blameless,  and  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy's conduct  is  justified  by  circumstances  over  which  he  has 
no  control ;  but  I  am  the  victim,  as  the  poor  always  are,"  added 
Mrs.  Mush,  resuming  her  philosophic  tone  ;  "  and  now,  suppose 
you  let  me  pack  up." 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?  "  asked  Sybil,  rather  disconsolately. 

"  No,  my  dear,  thank  you.  You  had  better  go  and  see  that 
your  uncle's  room  is  aired  properly. " 

"  It  has  been  aired  this  fortnight,"  said  Sybil  impatiently ; 
but  she  went,  not,  indeed,  to  see  her  uncle's  room  aired,  but  to 
take  a  walk  in  the  garden. 

Past  the  sun-dial,  up  the  steps  went  Sybil,  into  the  wilder- 
ness above,  which  Mr.  Kennedy  had  had  the  good  taste  not  to 
improve.  The  morning  was  lovely  ;  the  wild  rose,  the  honey- 
suckle blossomed  on  every  hedge.  A  pleasant  hum  of  insects 
filled  the  fragrant  air,  the  trees  shivered  in  the  sun,  and  the 
faint  roar  of  the  sea  was  like  music  to  the  ear.  But  Sybil  sat 
down,  and  felt  unhappy.  Something  was  altered  in  Saint  Vin- 
cent since  the  foolish  days  when  she  found  it  such  a  dreary  old 
house.  Nothing  had  been  the  same  since  Mr.  Smith's  coming. 
He  had  spoiled  all — the  peace  and  beauty  of  the  house,  tho 
happiness  of  its  tenants.  He  had  banished  her  aunt  Miss  Glyn, 
he  had  -taken  away  her  father,  he  had  made  Mrs.  Mush  myste- 
rious and  strange.  And  she  was  sure  that  he  was  at  the  bottom 
of  her  present  trouble.  It  was  Mr.  Smith  who  delayed  her  un- 
cle's coming,  who  rendered  her  father  irritable,  and  who  caused 
Mrs.  Mush's  sudden  departure. 


42  sybil's  second  love. 

"  But  I  must  say  that  my  new  uncle  abets  him,"  thought 
Sybil  resentfully,  "  and  I  know  I  shall  hate  him,  too." 

In  this  mood  she  bade  Mrs.  Mush  farewell,  and  saw  her 
leave  the  abbey.  As  they  embraced,  Mrs.  Mush  said  in  a  low, 
pitying;  tone,  "  Poor  child  !  " 

"  What  did  Mrs.  Mush  say  ? "  sharply  asked  her  father. 

Sybil,  her  tearful  eyes  fastened  on  the  carriage  that  was  rap- 
idly driving  away,  told  him. 

"  Let  Mrs.  Mush  keep  her  pity,"  he  scornfully  said ;  "  you 
want  none,  Pussy." 

"  I  feel  very  miserable,"  candidly  said  Sybil,  "  if  I  had  even 
dear  Blanche — " 

"  Nonsense,"  he  interrupted,  "  your  uncle  is  coming,  and  he 
is  worth  Mrs.  Mush  and  Miss  Cains  to  boot." 

Sybil  reddened  indignantly,  and  she  thought, 

"Mr.  Smith  sent  away  poor  Aunt  Glyn,  and  my  new  uncle 
sends  away  Mrs.  Mush — I  know  I  shall  hate  hini  ! " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Resolved  though  she  was  to  hate  her  uncle,  Sybil  none 
the  less  did  her  best  to  make  him  comfortable.  Once  more 
Denise  was  summoned  to  the  green  room,  and  over  this  slow 
deputy  Sybil  now  stood,  whilst  the  room  was  being  prepared 
for  its  tenant. 

Denise  was  never  in  a  hurry,  and  as  there  really  was  little 
or  nothing  to  do,  she  every  now  and  then  rested  from  her  la- 
bor ;  whilst  her  young  mistress  who  took  but  little  pleasure  in 
the  task  of  looking  on,  vainly  tried  to  stimulate  her,  with  an 
imploring — 

"  Now,  Denise,  do  get  on  ! " 

But  slowness  in  all  its  forms  was  one  of  the  attributes  of 
Denise. 

"  La  ! "  she  would  often  say,  "  where1  s  the  use  of  being  in  a 
hurry  ?     One  is  sure  to  get  on  all  the  same." 

Thanks  to  this  satisfactory  axiom,  Denise  proved  to  herself 
that  speed  was  needless,  and  never  used  it,  howsoever  great  the 
pressure  upon  her  might  be. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time,  mademoiselle,"  she  said.     "  The 


Sybil's  second  love.  43 

train  comes  in  at  six,  and  mademoiselle  may  be  sure  the  gen- 
tleman will  not  come  to-day.  People  never  do  come  on  the 
right  day." 

"  I  tell  you,  Denise,  that  whether  my  uncle  comes  or  not, 
the  room  must  be  ready." 

Denise  paused  in  the  act  of  making  the  bed. 

"  Is  he  old  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  What  about  it,  Denise  ? " 

"  Because  if  he  is  old,  we  must  put  an  extra  pillow  to  prop 
him  up  ;  and  if  he  is  not,  one  pillow  will  do." 

"  Denise,  you  will  drive  me  crazy  !  Put  the  pillow.  He  is 
sure  to  be  old.     Uncles  always  are  old." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  mademoiselle.  My  brother's  wife  has 
an  uncle  two  years  younger  than  she  is." 

"  Denise !  "  entreated  Sybil. 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"  Make  the  bed," 

"  I  am  making  the  bed." 

"  No,  Denise,  you  are  standing  still,  staring  at  me." 

"  Mademoiselle  has  such  white  hands,  and  such  pretty  fin- 
ders," admiringly  said  Denise. 

A  sound  of  voices  below  checked  Sybil's  impatient  reply  to 
this  complimentary  remark.  She  looked  out  of  the  window 
into  the  garden.  She  saw  her  father  walking  from  beneath  an 
arched  gallery  of  trellis-work,  covered  with  a  heavy  vine,  and 
behind  him  on  that  background  of  green  gloom  suddenly  ap- 
peared the  figure  of  a  stranger  clear  and  sunlit.  He  was  a  man 
of  thirty,  tall  and  strongly  built,  He  was  handsome,  too, 
though  he  had  heavy  hair  of  a  tawny  hue,  more  remarkable 
than  becoming,  and  his  broad  forehead,  and  heavy  eyebrows, 
which  shaded  large,  deep-set  eyes,  and,  above  all,  his  square 
chin,  and  pale,  firm  lips,  struck  Sybil  as  formidable  in  their  way. 
She  felt,  as  she  looked,  that  a  strong  nature,  mental  and  phys- 
ical, stood  before  her  ;  and  she  felt  "it  as  she  saw  it  rapidly,  for 
as  he  walked  by  her  father's  side,  the  stranger  suddenly  looked 
up  and  perceived  her.  He  smiled  at  her  blooming  face  looking 
down  at  him  from  the  vine-leaves,  but  had  time  to  do  no  more. 

When  he  turned  to  Mr.  Kennedy  with  a  questioning  look, 
Sybil  withdrew  quickly,  and  turned  to  Denise  with  flushed 
face.- 

"  I  am  sure  that  is  my  uncle  below,"  she  said.  "  You  need 
put  but  one  pillow,  Denise." 


44  Sybil's  second  love. 

"  Then  he  is  young  ?  "  ejaculated  Denise,  going  to  the  win- 
dow. 

"  You  need  not  look  at  him,"  said  Sybil,  shutting  the  win 
dow  deliberately.     "  Go  on  with  the  room,  Denise." 

Denise  obeyed,  and  her  young  mistress  waited  till  the  task 
was  done ;  then  saw  her  out,  closed  the  door,  and  for  awhile 
stood  in  doubt.  Should  she  go  down,  or  wait  till  she  was  sum- 
moned.    Her  father's  voice  decided  the  question. 

"  Pussy,  come  down,"  he  said. 

Thus  called,  Sybil  obeyed.  She  found  them  both  waiting 
for  her  just  outside  the  house  in  the  garden.  She  came  toward 
them  half  shy,  half  daring. 

"  Can't  you  look  at  your  uncle,  Pussy  ? "  gayly  asked  her 
father. 

Sybil  looked  up.  Mr.  Kennedy  passed  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  and  with  the  hand  that  was  free  he  raised  her  blooming 
face,  so  that  it  should  meet  the  gaze  of  his  brother's  deep-set 
but  brilliant  gray  eyes. 

"  She  is  not  amiss,"  he  said. 

An  approving  nod  implied,  "  Certainly  not." 

"  And  clever  and  good." 

"  I  believe  it,"  said  the  polite  uncle. 

"  And  she  is  a  rich  girl,  Ned." 

Ned  smiled. 

"  She  can  sing  like  a  lark,  and  frisk  like  a  kitten,  and  dance 
like  a  fairy,  and  do  every  thing  save  talk  sense." 

Sybil's  pretty  lip  pouted,  but  her  father  only  pinched  her 
cheek,  and  said  carelessly, 

"  Never  mind,  child ;  Edward  would  have  found  that  out 
very  soon." 

"  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  began  Sybil. 

Her  father  interrupted  her  rather  shortly. 

"  Uncle  Edward,  Pussy,"  he  corrected,  "  I  am  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy, and  we  can't  have  two.  And  now,  talk  sense  to  him  if 
you  can,  and  keep  him  company,  for  I  am  going  oft'  to  Saint 
Vincent,  and  will  not  be  back  till  night.  You  must  both  dine 
without  me." 

Sybil  looked  so  dismayed  at  the  duties  thus  laid  upon  her, 
that  her  uncle  laughed,  and  said  gayly, 

"  Never  mind,  my  dear,  I  shall  keep  you  company." 

His  voice  was  rich,  warm,  and  pleasant.  A  genial  voice, 
that  matched  with  his  merry  bright  eyes.    Sybil  looked  at  him, 


sybil's  second  love.  45 

and  liked  him,  and  when  Mr.  Kennedy  walked  away  saying, 
"  Don't  spoil  her,  Ned,"  she  glanced  up  rather  saucily  in  her 
uncle's  face,  as  if  to  see  how  much  inclination  to  spoil  her  she 
might  find  there.  His  downward  look  was  very  kind.  Indeed 
Sybil's  face  was  one  most  people  liked  to  look  at,  and  her  new 
uncle  proved  no  exception  to  the  general  rule.  Sybil  thought 
he  was  searching  for  a  likeness  Miss  Glyn  had  often  men- 
tioned. 

"  I  am  like  my  mother,  am  I  not  ?  "  she  said. 

"  My  dear,  I  never  saw  her.  I  was  far  away  when  you  were 
born." 

"  You  have  travelled  much,  uncle  ? " 

"  A  great  deal." 

"  But  where  ?  " 

"  Everywhere." 

"  Did  you  come  by  the  train,  uncle  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  you  saw  me  coming  through  the  garden.  The 
station  does  not  lie  in  that  direction,  does  it  ?  " 

Sybil  felt  she  had  questioned  enough,  and  looked  at  him 
doubtfully.  She  had  relied  on  that  good-humored,  easy  face 
of  his,  for  having  it  all  her  own  way  with  her  new  uncle,  but, 
looking  at  him  more  attentively,  she  saw  lines  of  will — stubborn 
lines,  she  called  them,  which  warned  her  not  to  depend  too 
much  on  her  first  impression. 

She  asked  a  little  timidly  if  her  uncle  wished  for  an  early 
dinner ;  and  he  having  very  promptly  replied  that  it  would  be 
highly  acceptable,  she  left  him  to  see  about  it.  She  saw  about 
herself  too.  She  perceived  that  her  uncle  had  begun  by  admi- 
ring her,  and  as  he  had  begun,  Sybil  wished  him  to  continue. 
When  they  met  at  dinner,  his  complacent  looks  showed  her 
that  she  had  been  successful.  Every  thing  about  him  said, 
"  You  are  very  pretty,  and  I  like  you." 

Sybil,  too,  liked  her  new  relative.  He  was  handsome,  ge- 
nial, and  good-humored.  He  had  a  frank,  open  look  which, 
though  it  could  become  dangerously  keen  and  piercing,  attract- 
ed her  irresistibly.  There  was  strength,  too,  in  him,  strength 
intellectual  and  physical,  which  conquered  Sybil ;  and  then  he 
was  delightful  company,  and  did  his  best  to  please  and  amuse 
her. 

"  He  is  very  unlike  papa,"  thought  Sybil,  "  and  not  so  hand- 
some ;  but  he  is  a  dear  old  uncle,  and  I  like  him  amazingly." 

She  wanted  to  leave  him  when  dinner  was  over,  but  Uncle 


46  syell's  second  love. 

Edward  completed  his  conquest  by  declining  to  sit  alone  over 
his  wine,  and  preferring  the  garden  and  her  society.  They 
walked  out  of  the  dining-room,  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down 
one  of  the  gravelled  paths,  then  came  hack  to  the  house.  On 
one  side  of  the  door  stood  a  broad  stone  bench. 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  said  Uncle  Edward. 

So  he  sat  down  at  one  end  of  the  bench,  and  Sybil  sat  at 
the  other,  and  looked  at  him  demurely. 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  he  said  coolly,  "  I  am  going  to  remain  in 
Saint  Vincent  for  some  time,  and  as  in  acquaintance,  as  in  every 
thing,  the  beginning  is  all  in  all,  I  beg  that  you  will  treat  me  at 
once  like  a  real  old  uncle,  who  is  determined  to  pet,  spoil,  and 
even  scold  you,  if  need  be." 

"Every  one  scolds  me,"  rather  indignantly  said  Sybil — 
"  even  Blanche." 

"  Blanche  ! — have  you  got  a  sister? " 

"  No ;  Blanche,  Miss  Cains,  is  my  friend,  and  the  best,  the 
noblest,  the  dearest  creature — oh  !  she  is  so  good ! "  she  added, 
ardently. 

Her  eyes  sparkled  as  she  launched  on  her  favorite  topic. 
Uncle  Edward  watched  her,  and  seemed  amused. 

"  So  good,  is  she  ? "  he  ejaculated,  leaniog  back  in  his  cor- 
ner of  the  bench  ;  "  then  I  should  not  like  her — goodness  is  in- 
sipid." 

"  Ah  !  not  goodness  like  hers.     She  has  plenty  of  spirit." 

"  I  do  not  like  spirited  women — they  have  such  a  temper." 

"  But  Blanche  has  no  temper,"  a  little  warmly  said  Sybil, 
"  or,  rather,  she  has  a  beautiful  temper — so  sweet ! " 

"  You  think  so  ;  depend  upon  it  that  sweetness  is  all  put  on." 

"  Indeed  it  is  not.  Blanche  has  the  face,  and  the  heart,  and 
the  nature  of  an  angel." 

"  The  heart  of  an  angel — why,  my  dear,  what  can  you  know 
about  the  heart  of  an  angel?" 

There  was  truth  in  the  remark,  and  Sybil  was  vexed  to  have 
said  a  foolish  thing. 

"  I  do  not  know  why  every  one  is  against  poor  Blanche,"  she 
said,  indignantly.  "It  was  just  the  same  at  school.  Emma 
said  ber  hair  was  not  her  own — now  I  am  sure  it  is." 

"  Do  not  be  too  sure.  I  dare  say  she  puts  on  her  golden 
curls,  true  angelic  color,  as  she  puts  on  the  sweetness,  etc." 

Sybil  knew  her  uncle  only  meant  to  teaze  her,  but  affection 
is  sensitive,  and  she  was  so  vexed  with  his  remarks,  that  she 


Sybil's  second  love.  47 

felt  her  growing  liking  for  this  new  relative  considerably  chilled. 
He  saw  her  grave,  displeased  face,  and  smiled. 

"  I  do  believe  you  are  a  good  child,"  he  said — "  a  good, 
affectionate  little  creature,  and  I  am  sure  we  shall  get  on  beau- 
tifully together." 

Sybil  did  not  feel  so  sure  of  that,  but  tried,  nevertheless,  to 
look  more  gracious,  and  as  she  looked  she  soon  felt. 

This  new  uncle's  manner,  both  direct  and  genial,  acted  as  a 
kind  of  "  sesame "  with  most  people.  Few  could  resist  the 
mixture  of  frankness  and  good-humor  which  his  countenance 
expressed,  and  an  inexperienced  girl  like  Sybil,  unaccustomed 
to  society,  had  no  fund  of  coldness  or  reserve  to  fall  back  upon. 
Indeed,  she  did  not  think  of  it.  Her  uncle  seemed  to  her  a 
most  agreeable  companion.  He  was  quite  as  clever  as  Mrs. 
Mush,  and  to  Sybil  he  appeared  more  kind.  The  truth  was, 
Uncle  Edward  was  a  good  deal  younger  than  Sybil's  cousin, 
and  the  young  dearly  like  the  young,  though,  to  be  sure,  Uncle 
Edward  was  only  young  by  comparison.  Nevertheless,  Sybil's 
whole  heart  opened  to  him.  She  talked,  she  laughed,  and  was 
as  much   at  her  ease  as  if  she  had  known  him  vears.      Uncle 

J 

Edward  liked  all  this  ;  he  liked  the  garden,  too,  and  that  mild 
evening,  that  spoke  of  coming  summer ;  but  something  was 
wanting  to  complete  his  happiness,  so  he  took  out  a  cigar. 

"  Ah  !  you  smoke,"  she  said,  reproachfully. 

"  My  dear,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  shall  walk  away,  and 
come  back  in  an  hour  or  so." 

He  rose,  and  Sybil  looked  blank. 

"  You  are  going  to  leave  me,"  she  said,  dolefully — "  pray 
don't  go." 

It  was  Uncle  Edward's  turn  to  look  doleful,  for  if  Sybil  wa^ 
charming  a  cic^ar  was  delightful. 

"  Oh  !  you  may  smoke  all  the  same,"  she  said,  resignedly — 
"  I  am  used  to  it.     Papa  smokes." 

"  You  little  cbeat ! — I  thought  it  made  your  head  ache." 

"  Well,  but  it  is  a  terribly  bad  habit,  uncle." 

"  So  says  your  charming  sex,  because  it  knows  not  the  vir- 
tues of  tobacco.  Do  I  feel  in  a  bad  temper,  I  take  a  cigar,  and 
smoke  my  ruffled  temper  down.  Do  I  want  a  new  train  of 
thought,  I  light  my  cigar,  and  it  comes.  Do  I  feel  in  need  of 
society,  my  cigar  keeps  me  company.  In  short,  tobacco  13 
soothing,  thoughtful,  and  sociable." 

"  Then  why  don't  girls  smoke  ?  "  tartly  asked  Sybil. 


48  SYBIL  S   SECOND   LOVE. 

"  Because  it  would  interfere  with,  their  eloquence.  Don't 
look  at  me.  The  remark  is  none  of  mine.  It  was  uttered  by 
a  cynical  philosopher  a  long  time  ago." 

"  What  was  his  name  ?  "  indignantly  asked  Sybil. 

"  I  have  forgotten  it ;  but  I  dare  say  he  lived  in  a  tub,  and 
was  quite  beneath  your  notice.  And  now,  what  have  you  been 
reading  to-day  ?     Your  father  says  you  are  a  great  reader." 

"  I  have  been  reading  Livy." 

"  Livy  !— who  is  that  ?  " 

If  Sybil  could  have  seen  Uncle  Edward,  she  might  have 
detected  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  gray  eye  ;  but  the  evening  was 
growing  dark,  and  she  had  no  thought  of  miscbief,  so  secretly 
compassionating  his  ignorance,  she  said  kindly, 

"  Why,  he  was  a  Roman  historian,  uncle,  and  I  have  been 
reading  his  account  of  Virginia's  death,  and  it  is  grand." 

"  Indeed ! " 

He  seemed  interested  ;  and  Sybil,  still  anxious  to  improve 
him,  went  on. 

"  A  bad  man,  a  Decemvir,  wanted  to  make  a  slave  of  her, 
and  her  father,  Virginius,  saved  her  by  killing  her." 

"  That  was  a  sharp  remedy." 

"  Not  too  sharp,"  cried  Sybil,  eagerly.  "  I  mean  it  was 
better  to  die  than  to  be  Claudius's  slave.  Besides,  Virginius 
was  not  a  Christian." 

"  Which  saves  all." 

"At  least,  it  justifies  him.  He  snatched  up  a  knife  in  the 
Forum  and  killed  her — and  he  did  well !  " 

"  You  little  heathen  ! " 

"  Ah  !  if  I  could  see  the  Forum  !  "  continued  Sybil,  without 
heeding  him  ;  "  if  I  could  only  see  it !  " 

"  Will  a  view  in  the  stereoscope  do  you,  Sybil  ?  I  have 
brought  you  one." 

"  You  have  got  the  Forum  ! "  she  cried,  her  eyes  spark- 
ling. 

"  Come  in  and  sec." 

They  went  into  the  dining-room.  Uncle  Edward  rang, 
?.»ked  Denise  for  a  light,  and  for  a  black  square  box  on  the  ta- 
ble in  his  room.  She  presently  returned  with  it.  Uncle  Ed- 
ward adjusted  the  view,  and  having  handed  the  instrument  to 
Sybil,  he  sat  down,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  watched  her. 
Sybil  looked  long  and  eagerly.  She  saw  a  few  tall,  shattered 
columns  rising  on  the  sky.     An  arch  stood  in  th6  distance,  aud 


Sybil's  second  love.  49 

grass-grown  ruins  lay  in  the  foreground.  Her  heart  beat,  her 
cheek  flushed.  This  was  the  Forum ;  but  where  was  the  De- 
cemvir sitting  in  state? — where  were  the  lictors  ? — where  was 
the  vast  surging  crowd  that  saw  Virginia  die,  and  rose  to 
avenge  her  ? 

"  Why,  this  is  a  desert,"  she  said,  with  an  impatient  sigh. 

"  Xot  quite  ;  but  even  though  it  were  !  The  desert  is  the 
great  master,  Sybil.  Where  it  has  been  once  it  will  be  again. 
I  read  the  other  day  that  a  shady  forest  grew  behind  Westmin- 
ster Abbey  once  on  a  time.  Well,  ages  hence  a  forest  will 
grow  there  again,  I  have  no  doubt.  Mighty  oaks  will  flourish 
in  Poets'  Corner,  and  birds  sing  on  their  boughs  and  build 
nests  there,  and  the  dust  of  heroes  will  nourish  the  roots  of  elm 
and  beech — and  where' s  the  harm,  Sybil  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  this  is  not  the  right  Forum — not  the  one  I  ima- 
gined." 

"  My  dear,  the  names  of  ruins  are  the  best  part  of  their 
beauty.  See,  this  is  the  Via  Sacra ;  somewhere  there  beyond 
Romulus  and  Eemus  were  found.  That  arch  was  raised  by 
Titus,  after  the  siege  of  Jerusalem ;  and  near  these  columns 
Curtius  leaped  into  the  yawning  pit." 

"  You  have  seen  the  Forum  ?  "  cried  Sybil,  looking  eagerly 
at  the  eyes  which  had  beheld  the  most  famous  places  of  ancient 
story. 

"  I  have.  And  that  Forum  where  Roman  met  Roman,  I 
found  almost  as  silent  as  the  glass  representation  on  your  lap. 
I  have  also  seen  the  Colosseum  where  the  barbarian  fought  and 
died,  whilst  Caesar  and  the  six  vestal  virgins,  and,  indeed,  all 
Rome,  looked  on — it  was  such  a  dainty  sight.  Moreover,  I 
have  seen  the  crumbling  ruins  of  palaces,  and  the  great  desert 
of  the  Campagna,  and  long  lines  of  ancient  tombs  by  the  Via 
Ajipia,  etc.,  etc." 

Sybil  clasped  her  hands  and  envied  him.     But  he  shook  his 
heavy  hair  and  laughed. 

"  So  you  too  are  a  Roman,"  he  said  ;  "  well,  so  was  I  once. 
But  how  I  have  learned  to  hate  that  greedy  old  heathen, 
Rome,  since  then!  Well,  it  is  no  use  arguing  with  you — you 
think  me  a  rank  heretic,  and  you  arc  a  Roman  lady.  But  pray 
where  is  the  lono;  slender  stole,  with  its  broad  u'irdle  and  its 
hem  of  purple  and  gold?  Have  vou  any  of  that  ojms  Phrygia- 
num  supposed  to  have  been  point  lace?  Do  you  keep  your 
hands  cool  with  an  amber  ball,  and  your  neck  with  a  live  ser- 
3 


50  sybil's  second  love. 

pent  ?  No,  I  miss  the  veil,  and  the  ample  jpalla  too — my  dear, 
I  am  afraid  you  are  no  Roman  after  all." 

"  Do  you  think  Virginia  was  dressed  so  ? "  cried  Sybil,  all 
eagerness. 

"  Well,  no  ;  I  am  talking  of  an  Imperial,  not  a  Republican 
lady." 

"  You  are  very  learned,"  said  Sybil ;  "  and  I  see  you  have 
read  Livy,  and  that  you  have  been  drawing  me  out — it  is  too 
bad,  uncle." 

"  So  it  is,"  be  replied  candidly ;  "  but  you  see  I  like  it." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  smoothed  ber  hair.  Sybil 
shook  her  head  impatiently. 

"  Ah  !  but  I  like  that  too,"  he  remonstrated.  "  You  are 
like  a  nice  little  kitten,  you  see — it  is  pleasant  to  stroke  you." 

Sybil  drew  herself  up  indignantly,  and  moved  ber  chair 
away  ;  but  Uncle  Edward  soon  coaxed  her  back. 

"  What  else  have  you  been  reading  to-day  ? "  be  asked 
kindly.  "  You'll  not  tell  me — but  you  must — else  bow  are  we 
to  get  on  ? — People's  books  are  to  me  as  good  as  people's 
minds." 

"  Well,  then,  what  have  you  been  reading,  uncle  ? " 

"  My  dear,  as  I  came  in  the  railway  I  read  one  of  the  sad- 
dest books  that  ever  was  written — '  Don  Quixote.'  " 

"  Sad  ! — you  call  that  sad  ? "  cried  Sybil,  shaking  ber  saucy 
curls.     "  I  never  take  it  up  but  I  laugh  till  I  am  tired." 

"  Yes — youth  is  pitiless.  And  I,  too,  used  to  laugh  at  Don 
Quixote — beaten,  mocked,  ill-used  Don  Quixote.  Don  Quix- 
ote, the  great  knight,  the  gallant  gentleman,  the  brave  heart, 
and  yet  so  gentle.  But  you  were  mad,  Don  Quixote — you 
were  very  mad  indeed.  You  believed  in  chivalric  honor;  in 
ladies  beautiful,  virtuous,  and  distressed ;  in  knights,  the  flower 
of  bravery,  and  the  pink  of  courtesy.  You  went  about  seeking 
what  wrongs  you  might  redress — what  weak  ones  you  might 
protect — what  strong  giants  of  evil  you  might  cut  down.  And 
you  loved  Dulcinea — fair,  profaned  image  !  You  loved  her 
purely,  honorably.  And  as  you  were  the  finest  gentleman,  the 
noblest  knight  earth  ever  bore,  a  great  genius  told  your  story  ; 
and  who  can  say  whether  he  told  it  in  sorrow  or  in  scorn  '.  " 

Sybil  looked  puzzled,  and  tried  to  read  ber  uncle's  face. ; 
but  it  baffled  her.  There  was  something  there  beyond  girlish 
acumen. 

"  Did  you  read  any  other  book,  uncle  ?  "  she  asked  wistfully. 


sybil's  secoxd  love.  51 

He  laughed  a  low,  but  hearty  laugh. 

"  So  you  want  to  draw  me  out,"  he  said  gayly ;  "  my  dear 
little  girl,  you  cannot  do  it.  It  is  the  privilege  of  my  years 
and  experience  to  read  you ;  and  it  is  the  blessing  of  your 
years  and  ignorance  that  you  cannot  possibly  read  me.  I  am 
an  old  bird — a  hawk — or  I  could  not  pass  through  life  ;  and 
you  are,  as  yet,  a  little  white  dove,  innocent  and  spotless.  May 
you  remain  so  very  long,  my  dear — very  long." 

His  look,  his  voice,  were  very  kind.  They  more  than 
atoned  for  the  freedom  of  his  remarks  ;  besides,  in  neither  could 
Sybil  read  contempt  for  her  ignorance  ;  and  she  was  too  quick 
and  sensitive  not  to  detect  in  both  the  respect  and  tenderness 
which  a  generous  and  manly  nature  ever  feels  for  girlhood  and 
innocence. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  he  suddenly  asked. 

"  Seventeen  last  April,  uncle." 

"  Seventeen  !  Then  fourteen  years  ago  I  saw  you.  You 
are  rather  altered,  but  you  have  kept  that  naughty  little  girl's 
dark  eyes." 

Sybil  longed  to  question.  Where  had  he  been  since  then  ? 
How  was  it  that  his  name  had  never  been  mentioned  within  her 
hearing  ?  Words  trembled  on  her  lips,  but  she  was  spared  the 
temptation  of  uttering  them.  The  dining-room  door  opened, 
and  Mr.  Kennedy  suddenly  appeared  and  said  gayly, 

"  Well,  Pussy,  how  much  sense  have  you  talked  and  how 
are  you  getting  on  with  Uncle  Edward  ? " 

"  Oh  !  so  well,"  replied  Sybil  nodding. 

They  both  laughed.     But  Sybil  meant  what  she  said. 

"  He  is  very  delightful,"  she  thought,  as  she  went  up-stairs 
that  night ;  and  when,  after  a  long  fit  of  musing  she  went  to 
bed,  and  fell  asleep,  she  dreamed  that  her  ancle  was  <join^  to 
marry  Blanche  Cains,  and  that  she,  Sybil,  acted  as  bridesmaid, 
and  stood  with  them  near  the  altar. 


52  Sybil's  second  love. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Sybil's  dream  did  not  seem  as  very  likely  to  be  fulfilled,  for 
as  her  uncle  entered  the  cloister  the  next  morning  he  found  ber 
walking  slowly  along  one  of  the  gallei"ies  with  an  open  letter  in 
her  hand,  and  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  kindly,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  Tell 
me ;  perhaps  I  can  assist  you." 

Sybil  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  it  was  so  kind  that  at  once 
she  told  him  her  trouble. 

"  I  have  got  a  letter  from  my  friend,  and  she  asks  me  to 
get  her  a  situation  in  a  school,  or  in  a  family  at  Saint  Vincent, 
aud  papa  will  not  let  me  interfere  ;  he  will  not  even  let  me  talk 
to  Mrs.  Ronald.  He  says  I  know  nothing  of  the  qualifications 
required  for  a  teacher.  But  how  is  dear  Blanche  to  get  on  if 
no  one  helps  her  ?     Uncle,  what  am  I  to  do  ? " 

He  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  seemed  both  perplexed 
and  concerned. 

"  Dear  uncle,  "  resumed  Sybil,  "  I  have  got  fifty  francs— two 
pounds  English — don't  you  think  I  can  send  it  to  Blanche  ?  It 
is  mine,  you  know,  and  she  will  not  mind  it  from  me.  She 
knows  I  love  her  so  much." 

"  No,  Sybil ;  let  me  lend  you  some  money.  You  can  say 
you  had  it  from  a  friend." 

"  No,  no,"  interrupted  Sybil.  "  It  must  be  my  money  only, 
uncle.  I  cannot  send  it  myself,  and  I  sball  be  so  grateful  to  you 
if  you  will  do  that  for  me." 

"  Well,  your  gratitude  is  worth  something,  Sybil,  so  I  shall 
do  this." 

"  I'll  £K>  and  fetch  it  at  once,"  cried  Svbil. 

"  You  can  give  it  to  me  later." 

"  No — no,  it  must  be  my  money." 

"  Must  it?— well,  then,  go." 

Sybil  left  him  at  once,  and  soon  came  back  out  of  breath. 
Her  eyes  sparkled  with  joy  as  she  handed  him  the  gold  pieces. 
He  chinked  them  gayly,  and  said, 

"Your  little  fortune,  Sybil — shall  I  give  you  a  receipt  ?" 

"  No,  no,  I'll  trust  you,"  saucily  said  Sybil ;  "  but  you'll  send 
it  to-day,  will  you  not? " 

"This  very  morning.  "What  a  pleasant  old  cloister  this  is, 
Sybil ;  I  suppose  you  will  let  me  smoke  here  ?  " 


sybil's  second  love.  53 

"  Yes,  uncle ;  but  are  you  sure  you  will  not  forget  sending 
the  money  \ " 

"  There  is  not  the  least  fear  of  my  forgetting  it.  That  cross 
is  very  fine  ;  I  like  this  old  abbey." 

"  So  should  I,  if  Blanche  were  with  me,"  sighed  Sybil ;  "  but 
I  fear-papa  will  never  let  me  ask  her,  he  has  quite  a  prejudice 
against  her." 

-  "Perhaps  he  is  jealous,  my  dear.     You  seem  crazy  about 
Miss what  is  her  name  \ " 

«  Cains." 

"  Cains  !  a  formidable  name." 

"  Cains,  uncle ;  oh !  she  is  so  good,  how  you  would  admire 
her!" 

Uncle  Edward  smiled  a  skeptical  but  not  unkind  smile.  He 
liked  this  young  girl's  adoration  for  her  friend ;  it  was  so  fervent 
and  unselfish. 

"And  how  Blanche  would  admire  him!"  thought  Sybil; 
"  I  am  afraid  they  will  never  meet.  How  delightful  if  they  were 
to  marry,  and  she  were  to  become  my  aunt ! " 

There  was  something  so  peculiar  in  her  look  as  she  came 
to  this  conclusion,  that  he  reddened  a  little,  for  he  had  still  a 
a  good  deal  of  that  impulsive  sensitiveness  about  him  which 
calls  up  a  blush,  and  said  quickly, 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  " 

It  was  Sybil's  turn  to  color. 

"Nothing,"  she  stammered  ;  "but  are  you  sure  you  will  not 
forget  the  letter,  uncle  ? " 

"  I  dare  say  I  must  send  it  off  at  once,  to  please  you." 

"Ay,  uncle — pray  do." 

"  Well  then,  good-by." 

He  nodded  to  her,  and  reentered  the  house.  Sybil  remained 
in  the  cloister,  pacing  it  up  and  down.  It  was  very  quiet,  very 
pleasant  with  its  roof  of  blue  sky  and  its  sumit  arcades,  and  Syb- 
il felt  gay  and  happy.  She  forgot  the  doubtful  future  which  lay 
before  poor  Miss  Cains.  She  only  remembered  that  she  had  just 
sent  her  fifty  francs ;  she  was  too  young  a  housekeeper  as  yet  to 
know  that  this  sum  could  not  go  very  far.  It  seemed  a  large 
one  to  Sybil,  and  she  felt  convinced  it  must  assist  Blanche  ma- 
terially. It  would  enable  her  to  leave  Miss  Blunt  and  go  on 
looking  for  an  engagement;  and  Blanche  was  so  good  and  so 
clever  and  so  fascinating,  that  she  must  end  by  getting  an  en- 
gagement— of  course   she  must.     In  this  happy  mood   Sybil 


54  sybil's  second  love. 

•walked  up  and  down  the  cloister,  and  indeed  remained  the  best 
part  of  the  day.  But  just  as  post  time  had  gone  hy,  she  re- 
membered with  dismay  that  her  uncle  had  not  taken  Miss  Caine's 
address.  The  two  pounds  were  lost,  and,  worst  of  all,  dear 
Blanche  would  not  get  them.  She  was  in  the  library  reading 
when  the  dismal  conviction  came  to  her.  At  once  she»  threw 
down  her  book,  and  ran  out  to  the  garden  where  she  had  just 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  uncle.  He  turned  round  on  hearing 
her  quick  footstep,  and  greeted  her  with  a  smile,  but  Sybil  ex- 
claimed dolefully, 

"  Oh !  dear,  uncle,  I  never  gave  you  her  direction." 

Uncle  Edward  smiled  and  said, 

"  Miss  Cains  lives  at  the  Greenery,  Brompton." 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  know  ? " 

"You  held  her  letter  so  that  I  could  not  help  seeing  this  much." 

Sybil's  face  fell.  Suppose  he  had  also  seen  the  first  para- 
graph of  Blanche  Cains's  letter — "And  so  you  are  resolved  not  to 
like  your  uncle  ?     Well,  my  dear,  I  have  other  troubles,  and — " 

"  On  my  word,"  he  emphatically  observed,  "  I  saw  and  read 
nothing  else." 

Sybil  blushed  at  Laving  so  readily  betrayed  her  dismay ;  hut 
.  she  was  glad  those  keen  gray  eyes  of  his,  which  were  keen 
though  they  were  so  kind,  had  not  seen  the  words  that  con- 
cerned himself. 

"  For  I  do  like  him,"  she  thought  as  she  walked  by  his  side, 
"  I  do  like  him,  and  I  shall  like  him  more,  I  know." 

"  It  is  gone — gone  in  your  name,  and  Miss  Cains  will  get  it 
to-morrow  evening,"  he  resumed. 

Sybil  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"Uncle,"  she  said,  "  how  quick  and  clever  you  are  to  have 
seen  and  remembered  her  direction.  I  wish  you  had  been  here 
with  Mr.  Smith." 

"He  was  silent  awhile,  then  said  slowlv, 

"  Mr.  Smith— who  is  Mr.  Smith  ? " 

"That  is  just  it — who  is  he?  I  cannot  make  it  out.  He 
seems  a  low  vulgar  man,  but  sometimes  I  think  he  is  not.  I 
suppose  he  makes  believe.  And  then  he  went  away  so  strangely. 
You  would  have  found  him  out  if  you  had  been  here.  I  do  be- 
lieve Mrs.  Mush  knew  all  about  him,  but  then  she  would  not 
tell  me." 

And  you  suppose  that  I  would.  I  fancy  you  are  ac- 
customed to  be  humored,  Miss  Sybil.     I  suspect  that  your  own 


Sybil's  second  love.  55 

little  pleasure  is  the  law  of  your  little  life.  It  seems  to  be  rather 
a  butterfly  existence  that  which  you  lead.  Out  early  and  late  in 
the  garden,  leaning  on  window-sills  dreaming  away  through  the 
twilight,  and  so  on — eh  ? " 

Sybil  looked  at  him  a  little  surprised.  Was  her  new  uncle 
going  to  take  up  Miss  Glyn's  vacant  office  and  find  fault,  and  to 
talk  at  her  like  Mrs.  Mush  ? 

Uncle  Edward  laughed,  and  shook  his  tawny  mane  as  he 
looked  in  her  face. 

"  I  see  you  are  amazed  at  my  audacity,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
"  but  you  will  get  used  to  it." 

He  spoke  so  composedly  that  Sybil  was  confounded.  She 
thought  a  great  deal  of  her  dignity,  and  it  was  plain  he  thought 
nothino-  of  it. 

"  Come,  now,"  he  said  good-humoredly,  "  confess  it  is  a  but- 
terfly life.  I  do  not  see  you  study,  sew,  or  even  read  steadily. 
It  is  all  fluttering  about  house,  cloister,  "and  garden,  from  morn- 
ino-  till  night." 

"I  have  just  left  school,"  gravely  replied  Sybil,  "  and  there- 
fore do  not  want  to  study." 

"Ah!  very  true." 

And  there  was  an  odd  twinkle  in  his  eye  which  reminded 
Sybil  of  Mrs.  Mush. 

"  I  hate  needlework,"  she  continued. 

"  That  is  candid." 

"And  for  steady  reading,  I  have  no  time,"  she  said  with  the 
greatest  seriousness. 

He  laughed  till  he  shook  again,  and  his  laugh,  though  not 
loud  and  boisterous,  nevertheless  answered  his  large  frame  and 
broad  shoulders.  It  was  clear,  hearty,  and  free.  Sybil  felt  very 
indignant,  and  reddened  with  vexation. 

"  Come,  my  dear,"  he  said,  when  his  merriment  was  out,  "  do 
not  look  so  grave,  if  you  please,  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  your 
father  having  asked  my  candid  opinion  of  you  last  evening,  I 
was  obliged  to  give  it.  Upon  which  he  requested  me  to  take 
you  in  hand,  which  I  mean  to  do,  so  do  not  wonder  if  my  spare 
time  is  devoted  to  improving  you." 

Sybil's  gay  face  lengthened  considerably  on  hearing  this. 

"  You  see,"  he  continued  not  unkindlv,  though  with  a 
touch  of  sarcasm  which  Sybil  could  but  ill  endure,  "  you  are,  or 
think  yourself,  poetry  ;  but  I  am  prose  from  first  to  last — piti- 
less, stern,  ruthless  prose." 


56  sybil's  second  love. 

Aud  prose  lie  did  look.  Strong,  massive  prose,  logical  and, 
as  lie  said  himself,  pitiless.  Some  flowers  of  fancy  grew  on  that 
mighty  stem,  some  gentle  thoughts  flowed  from  that  clear  firm 
mind,  but  they  did  not  predominate.  Goodness,  and  generos- 
ity, and  nobleness  you  felt  as  you  looted  at  or  listened  to  him, 
but  something  Sybil  missed,  and  the  want  of  that  something 
frightened  her.  lie  did  not,  or  he  would  not  see  this.  He 
made  her  sit  down  on  the  bench  by  the  house ;  and  then  he  sat 
down  by  her,  and  began  catechising  her  concerning  what  she 
knew  and  how  she  knew  it.  It  was  a  severe  ordeal,  and  through 
that  trying  test  they  got  on  together  as  a  giant  and  a  fairy  might, 
in  the  days  when  there  were  such  people.  The  poor  little  fairy 
did  not  always  get  the  best  of  it ;  for  though  the  giant  could  be 
playful  enough,  he  was  playful,  as  giants  are,  in  rather  a  danger- 
ous way.  His  very  kindness  was  careless,  and,  without  meaning 
it,  often  cruel.  He  laughed  at  Sybil,  who  could  not  bear  being 
laughed  at,  and  he  proved  to  Sybil,  who  innocently  thought  her- 
self an  accomplished  young  lady,  that  she  knew  a  little  of  every 
thing,  and  enough  of  nothing.     At  last  she  rebelled. 

"  Oh !  dear,"  she  said,  petulantly,  "  that  is  very  tiresome. 
Every  one  wants  to  improve  me.  I  am  sure  I  cannot  have  so 
many  faults  as  all  that.  As  if  I  could  not  improve  other  peo- 
ple, too,  if  I  were  to  set  about  it." 

"  I  dare  say  you  could.  Indeed,  I  have  no  doubt  your  wis- 
domship  would  find  plenty  to  improve  in  me." 

Sybil  was  silent,  but  her  looks  said  plainly,  "  To  be  sure  I 
could." 

"  But  for  all  that,  my  dear,  you  must  improve  yourself  first 
of  all.     Such  is  your  father's  wish." 

"  But  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  blue-stocking,  or  a  teacher, 
uncle,  or  a  seamstress  either.     I  do  not  want  to  work." 

"  And  find  it  pleasantcr  to  do  nothing !  " 

Tears  rose  to  Sybil's  eyes.  Pride  would  not  let  them  fall, 
but  pride  had  much  ado.  "I  am  not  idle,"  she  remonstrated. 
"  I  am  always  doing  something." 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  useless  sort  of  activity  about  you.  I  have 
noticed  that,  too." 

Sybil  reddened  up  in  mute  indignation  ;  but  luckily  at  that 
very  moment  Mr.  Kennedy  came  toward  them  with  an  open 
letter  in  his  hand. 

"  News  for  you,  Pussy,"  he  said,  gayly.  "  Mrs.  Ronald  gives 
a  party  next  week,  and  you  are  asked  to  it." 


Sybil's  second  love.  57 

A  flush  of  joy  rose  to  Sybil's  cheeks^her  eyes  sparkled 


again 


"  Oh  !  clear ! "  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands,  and  dancing 
gayly.     "  I  have  never  been  to  a  real  party  before." 

"  Well,  Pussy,  there  is  a  beginning  to  all  things." 

"But  what  shall  I  wear?"  asked  Sybil,  looking  from  her 
father  to  her  uncle  in  great  perplexity  ? 

"Edward  will  advise  you  best,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy.  "I 
never  go  to  parties,  and  he  does." 

"  But  you  will  go  to  this  ? " 

"  Yes,  Pussy,  to  take  you.  Tell  that  girl  what  she  is  to  wear, 
Ned.     I  am  in  a  hurry." 

He  walked  away,  leaving  Sybil  rather  indignant  at  being  re- 
ferred to  her  censorious  uncle  on  a  matter  of  dress. 

Her  uncle,  however,  seemed  equal  to  every  thing,  fur  he 
looked  keenly  at  Sybil,  and  said, 

"You  must  wear  pink,  Sybil.  Any  thing  light  in  texture, 
with  plenty  of  roses." 

Sybil  knew  that  pink  suited  her,  and  she  was  fond  of  roses. 
She  was  beginning  to  think  that  her  uncle  had  a  great  deal  of 
judgment,  when  she  exclaimed,  with  sudden  dismay, 

"  I  have  got  no  pink  dress,  and  no  money." 

"  Oh  !  what  a  pity  the  letter  is  gone  !  "  he  said. 

"  But  it  is  not  a  pity.  I  have  a  white  dress,  which  will  do 
very  well,  and  I  can  always  get  roses.  But  how  shall  I  wear 
them,  uncle  ?" 

"How?  let  me  see." 

He  looked  down  into  her  face  with  a  kind,  admiring  smile. 

"Nature  has  given  you  your  share  of  roses,"  he  said; 
"  beautiful,  ingenuous  roses,"  he  added,  as  she  blushed  steadily 
beneath  his  gaze.  "Keep  them  long,  my  dear — keep  them 
long." 

Sybil  laughed  saucily.  Of  course  she  would  keep  her  roses. 
Time  did  nof  exist  for  her,  or  was  one  of  those  vague,  abstract 
truths,  of  which  youth  takes  no  heed. 

"  Next  week !  "  she  said.  "  I  must  see  about  it  at  once — 
must  I  not,  uncle  ? " 

"  Ay  !  my  dear,  be  energetic  about  that  !  " 

But  Sybil  would  not  heed  his  reproachful  tone.  She  turned 
a  deaf  ear  to  admonition.  She  was  going  to  a  party,  and  she 
must  prepare  for  it  with  all  speed. 

"Good-by,"  uncle,  she  said  saucily,  as  she  lightly  ran  away. 
3* 


58  Sybil's  second  love. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

The  week  of  preparation  did  not  prove  a  friendly  week  be- 
tween uncle  and  niece.  Mr.  Kennedy's  brother  continued  Ms  in- 
vestigations into  Sybil's  mental  state,  and  these  were  so  unfavor- 
able to  the  soundness  of  her  intellectual  culture,  that  his  opinion, 
freely  expressed,  concerned  Mr.  Kennedy  and  deeply  displeased 
his  daughter.  When,  on  the  evening  of  the  party,  Sybil  being 
fully  dressed,  went  down  to  the  library  to  show  herself  to  her 
father,  she  was  unpleasantly  surprised  to  find  her  uncle  in  his 
stead.  He  sat  writing  a  letter — he  was  not  included  in  Mrs. 
Ronald's  invitation — and  he  looked  up  slowly  on  hearing  the 
door  open.  He  saw  Sybil  standing  on  the  threshold,  and  with 
a  smile  he  said, 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  me,  Sybil  ? " 

Her  only  reply  was  to  come  forward  with  a  stateliness  which 
amused  him  much.  He  looked  at  her  keenly  from  head  to  foot, 
but  said  not  one  word.  Sybil  fanned  herself,  and  said  im- 
patiently : 

"  Well,  how  am  I  dressed  ? " 

"  So— so." 

Now  Sybil  was  very  well  dressed,  and  she  knew  it.  She 
wore  a  clear  white  muslin,  trimmed  with  some  costly  laces, 
which  she  had  inherited  from  her  mother,  and  exquisite  roses 
blushed  on  her  bosom,  and  were  woven  in  a  wreath  in  her  dark 
hair. 

«  So — so,"  she  echoed,  a  little  indignantly;  "  and  my  mus- 
lin is  Indian,  and  the  lace  is  beautiful,  and  my  roses  cost  five 
francs  a-piece,  says  papa,  and — " 

"  And  I  shall  break  every  heart  this  evening,"  he  put  in. 

Sybil  blushed  a  little. 

"I  do  not  want  to  break  any  hearts,"  she  said;  "but  I  like 
to  be  well  dressed,  and  I  am  pleased  to  be  admired." 

M  That  is  honest,  Sybil." 

"  I  know  you  do  not  admire  me,"  she  resumed,  a  little 
warmly,  "  but  others  may." 

"  My  dear,  uncles  do  not  admire  their  nieces — I  mean,  as  a 
rule." 

Tears  stood  in  Sybil's  eyes. 

"  My  father  admires  me,"  she  said — "  not  because  I  deserve 
it,  but  because  he  loves  me." 


Sybil's  second  love.  59 

Her  uncle  looked  at  her,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Well  ? " 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  help  seeing  it,  uncle — you  do 
not  like  me." 

"  Indeed !  "  be  replied. 

"  Ah,  indeed ;  and  it  is  hard  to  have  even  one  uncle  who 
does  not  like  me." 

"  May  I  ask  to  know  what  are  your  grounds  for  such  a  con- 
clusion ?  " 

"  You  are  always  blaming  me — always  censuring,  always 
finding  fault,"  she  said ;  "  and  if  you  liked  me,  would  you  do 
that?'" 

"  Sybil,  I  give  you  sure  proof  of  a  true  friendship  and  true 
liking.  You  have  faults  which  spoil  you,  and  you  are  too  good 
to  be  spoiled.  Come,  sit  down  here,  and  listen  to  me.  You 
are  seventeen — that  is  to  say,  very  young — you  are  also  very 
pretty,  Sybil,  very  amiable,  and  decidedly  very  clever ;  but — " 

He.  had  no  time  to  continue.  His  niece  had  thrown  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  and  was  hugging  him  with  more  grati- 
tude than  gentleness. 

"Dear,  good  old  Uncle  Neddy,"  she  cried,  with  ardor, 
"how  I  have  wronged  you!  I  thought  you  hated  me,  and  I 
almost  hated  you.     Oh !  how  I  have  been  mistaken  ! " 

"  There,  my  dear,  that  will  do,"  he  said,  gently  putting  her 
away ;  "  you  have  not  heard  me  out." 

"  Oh  !  you  are  going  to  blame  now." 
f  "  Just  so.     I  am  going  to  tell  you  that,  if  you  have  these 
charming  gifts,  you  have  some  faults.     You  are  vain,  Sybil,  and 
hasty,  and  frivolous." 

"  Thank  you,"  cried  Sybil,  starting  from  his  side  with  sud- 
den wrath — "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  uncle,"  and  she 
darted  out  of  the  room,  and  would  hear  no  more. 

Sybil  felt  thoroughly  vexed,  and  could  scarcely  restrain  her 
tears,  but  her  spirits  returned  as  she  drove  with  her  father  to  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Ronald.  This  was  to  be  her  first  ball,  and  her 
presence  in  it,  so  eventful  to  her,  was  to  be  momentous  to  Mrs. 
Ronald.  But  in  order  to  understand  this,  we  must  give  some 
account  of  this  lady,  and  of  the  little  world  which  Sybil  was 
going  to  enter. 

The  pleasant  coasts  of  France  have  long  been  haunted  by 
tribes  of  English,  in  search,  some  of  economy,  others  of  variety, 
and  some  again  of  a  convenient  refuge.  To  this  latter  class 
none  of  the  English  residents  in  the  little  town  of  Saint  Vincent 

O 


60  sybil's  second  love. 

luckily  belonged.  They  paid  their  way  in  the  new  country, 
and  need  not  have  been  ashamed  to  hold  up  their  heads  in  the 
old.  Mrs.  Ronald  was  one  of  the  earliest  settlers  in  the  British 
colony  of  Saint  Vincent.  She  was  rich  in  this  cheap  place,  and 
as  she  gave  good  dinners  and  pleasant  parties,  she  was  popu- 
lar. Now  it  had  from  the  first  been  the  ambition  of  this  good 
lady's  life  to  reconcile  France  and  England.  Alas !  the  entente 
cordiale  proved  no  easy  matter  even  in  Saint  Vincent.  The 
provincial  French  are  a  jealous  and  exclusive  race,  and  nowhere 
were  they  more  so  than  in  this  western  nook.  They  resented 
English  intrusion,  and  showed  that  resentment  by  obstinate 
coldness  and  reserve.  They  would  not  make  these  strangers 
welcome,  and  even  the  neutral  ground  of  the  casino  saw  two 
camps,  not  inimical,  indeed,  but  certainly  not  friendly.  When 
subscription  balls  took  place  there  during  the  bathing  season, 
France  danced  on  one  side,  and  England  on  the  other.  Now 
Mrs.  Eonald  wanted  to  put  an  end  to  this,  and  to  have  a  French 
as  well  as  an  English  connection. 

_  Years  passed,  however,  and  brought  her  no  nearer  to  her 
object ;  but  at  length  Providence  gave  her  an  opening. 

An  old  French  lady  fell  in  the  street  at  Mrs.  Ronald's  door, 
and  was  picked  up,  taken  in,  and  hospitably  cared  for  by  that 
lady.  She  proved  quite  as  useful  in  her  way  as  the  fairy  in  the 
old  nursery  tales,  for  though  poor  and  rather  silly,  she  was  pow- 
erfully connected,  aud  held  Saint  Vincent,  so  to  speak,  in  the 
hollow  of  her  hand.  It  pleased  her  to  be  grateful  to  her  bene- 
factress ;  perhaps  it  also  pleased  her  to  partake  now  and  then 
of  Mrs.  Ronald's  good  cheer.  She  certainly  exerted  herself  in 
that  lady's  favor,  and  compelled  the  most  stubborn  to  receive 
aud  visit  this  stranger.  Mrs.  Ronald  was  a  clever  woman. 
Give  her  an  inch,  and  she  Avould  take  an  ell.  She  kept  and 
improved  her  position  long  after  grass  and  daisies  grew  on  the 
grave  of  her  patroness.  But  she  found  it  even  beyond  her 
power  to  make  her  English  and  her  French  friends  coalesce. 
She  gave  dinners  at  which  the  English  talked  English,  and  the 
French  talked  French.  She  gave  balls;  and  either  there  was  a 
dearth  of  English  partners,  or  French  ladies  were  wanting.  Re- 
peated failures  could  not  dishearten  Mrs.  Ronald.  Her  aim  was 
noble  aud  philanthropic.  She  considered  herself  a  link  be- 
tween the  two  nations,  and  she  relied  on  the  goodness  of  her 
cause.  Once  more  Providence  came  to  her  aid,  and  justified 
her  trust. 


sybil's  second  love.  01 


The  casino  was  burned  down,  and,  owing  to  want  of  funds, 
not  rebuilt.  Mrs.  Ronald's  beart  beat  with  joy  when  she  heard 
the  news.  She  had  them  now,  she  had.  She  lived  in  an  old 
chateau  with  ample  rooms.  Sbe  was  one  of  the  few  people  who 
could  give  a  great  ball.  The  dancers,  who  formed  a  powerful 
majority  on  both  sides,  were  at  her  mercy.  She  would  not  in- 
dulge them  at  once,  and  only  issued  her  invitations  when  she 
knew  that  they  would  be  accepted  thankfully.  As  this  shrewd 
lady  had  expected,  so  did  it  come  to  pass.  Every  one  she  had 
asked  came ;  and  here  ended  her  success.  The  ball  was 
crowded,  indeed,  but  it  was  dull ;  and  this  was  the  ball  to 
which  Sybil  had  been  asked. 

It  was  rather  late  when  Mr.  Kennedy's  carriage  drove  up  the 
gravelled  avenue  of  the  old  brick  chateau  in  which  Mrs.  Ronald 
resided.  Lights  were  shining  in  all  the  windows,  and  the  calm 
moonlight  slept  on  the  clipped  yews  of  the  old-fashioned  gar- 
den on  either  side. 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  enjoy  myself,"  cried  Sybil,  gayly.     "  Do 
you  hear  the  music  ?     Oh  !  if  dear  Blanche  were  here  !  " 
"  Pussy,  your  husband  will  be  jealous  of  Miss  Cains." 
"  My  husband  !— who  is  he  ?  "*  asked  Sybil.     "  What  is  he 
like?" 

Mr.  Kennedy  smiled,  but  did  not  answer.  Sybil  felt  a  little 
fluttered.  Her  father  could  not  be  wanting  her  to  get  married, 
surely  !  Her  color  rose,  her  dark  eyes  took  a  deep,  wondering 
look,  which  had  not  left  them  when  they  entered  Mrs.  Ronald's 
ball-room,  and  which  made  her  look  so  strangely  pretty,  that 
admiring  looks  and  a  half-murmur  of  praise  greeted  her  ap- 
pearance. 

"  Sybil,  you  are  the  prettiest  girl  present,"  whispered  her 
father. 

Sybil  blushed  crimson,  and  cast  a  shy  look  around,  and  felt 
and  saw  that  it  was  true. 

It  so  happened  that  pretty  girls,  English  and  French,  were 
scarce  in  Saint  Vincent,  and  that  of  all  present  none  could  com- 
pare, for  brilliancy  of  complexion  and  elegance  of  carriage, 
with  Sybil.  None,  too,  had  eyes  like  hers,  deep,  soft,  and  lus- 
trous— eyes  that  would  have  redeemed  a  plain  face,  and  that 
gave  hers  something  very  like  beauty. 

Within  five  minutes  of  her  entrance,  Sybil  was  the  queen 
of  the  ball;  and  before  a  quarter  of  an  hour  was  over  many  a 
faithless  knight  had  forsworn  his  allegiance,  and  laid  it  at  the 


62  sybil's  second  love. 

feet  of  this  fair  young  conqueror.  When  she  danced,  there  was 
a  crowd  to  look  at  her,  when  she  rested  there  was  another 
crowd — male,  of  course,  not  feminine — eager  to  secure  her 
hand,  or,  failing  this,  to  catch  a  look,  a  smile,  or  to  win  a  stray 
word. 

Mr.  Kennedy's  eyes  sparkled  with  delight.  He  had  felt 
sure  that  in  the  little  world  of  Saint  Vincent,  where  a  new  face 
was  an  event,  Sybil  would  have  what  is  called  a  success,  but  he 
had  not  expected  any  thing  so  complete  as  this.  Sybil,  though 
at  first  rather  startled  at  the  admiration  she  excited,  soon  grew 
reconciled  to  it.  Her  flushed  cheek  and  bright  eyes  told  a 
story  of  gentle  triumph.  She  did  not,  indeed,  exult  over  her 
conquered  rivals,  but  she  surrendered  herself  to  the  joy  of  vic- 
tory, and  in  that  joy  she  forgot  the  pain  and  tlie  mortification 
she  was  unconsciously  inflicting. 

Mrs.  Ronald  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  the  unexpected 
turn  Sybil's  appearance  had  given  to  her  party.  It  was  no 
longer  dull,  certainly,  but  then  it  was  getting  almost  more  ani- 
mated than  was  either  safe  or  pleasant ;  for  the  ball-room  was  a 
battle-field,  in  which  two  parties  strove  for  victory. 

"  My  dear  Madame  Ronald,"  said  Madame  de  Lonville,  in  a 
whisper,  "  who  is  she  ?  " 

Madame  de  Lonville  was  a  lady  who  kindly  made  her  neigh- 
bor's business  her  own,  and  whom  her  neighbor,  French  or  Eng- 
lish, rather  dreaded.  Mrs.  Ronald  always  asked  her  out  of 
policy,  and  out  of  policy  now  gave  her  the  required  information. 
Madame  de  Lonville's  little  round  eyes  shone  again  in  her  round 
face. 

"Pretty  and  rich,"  she  said ;  "but  not  much  family,  eh  ? 
They  had  a  vulgar  English  visitor  some  time  ago,  you  re- 
member ? " 

Mrs.  Ronald  deprecated  all  knowledge  of  Mr.  Kennedy's 
family  or  visitors.  Madame  de  Lonville  nodded  shrewdly  and 
waddled  off  to  Sybil,  with  whom  she  managed  to  enter  into 
conversation. 

"  Now,  if  she  marries  her  to  one  of  these  men,"  thought 
Mrs.  Ronald,  "  not  one  of  the  girls  will  ever  forgive  me." 

For  be  it  said,  en  passant,  Madame  de  Lonville  was  an  in- 
veterate match-maker. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ronald,"  said  Mr.  Grafton  Wilkes,  a  middle- 
aged  single  man,  who  had  retired  to  Saint  Vincent  after  an  ex- 
pensive campaign  in  the  London  world,  "  you  deserve  public 


Sybil's  second  love.  63 

thanks  for  bringing  out  this  sweet  little  creature.  She  is  not  a 
beauty,  but — " 

Mr.  Grafton  Wilkes  walked  away  after  uttering  this  expres- 
sive conjunction. 

"  Good  gracious  !  my  dear  Mrs.  Ronald,  what  a  little  flirt ! " 
whispered  Mrs.  Rainie,  whose  three  daughters  sat  neglected  and 
sulky ;  "  do  look  at  her  dancing  with  that  .Frenchman,  and  that 
is  his  betrothed  looking  on.  I  declare,  her  face  makes  my 
heart  ache.  I  suppose  that  low  Mr.  Smith  was  related  to  them. 
She  is  like  him." 

Poor  Sybil  was  indeed  dancing  with  a  very  handsome 
young  man,  smiling  prettily  at  his  flattering  speeches.  And  a 
pale  fair  girl  stood  watching  them  with  misery  on  her  face. 
Twenty  such  speeches  did  Mrs.  Ronald  hear  within  the  next 
half-hour.  She  began  to  feel  seriously  alarmed — the  entente  cor- 
dlale,  the  work  of  years,  the  consummation  so  devoutly  ex- 
pected, was  seriously  compromised,  and  all  because  Sybil  was 
pretty  and  carried  every  thing  before  her.  She  heartily  wished 
she  had  never  asked  her,  and  watched  her  triumphant  progress 
with  silent  vexation.  One  thing  was  clear  :  the  men,  with  few 
exceptions,  were  on  Sybil's  side,  and,  with  exceptions  as  few, 
the  women  were  against  her.  Now,  it  is  woman  who  rules  the 
social  world;  and  "if  women,  French  or  English,  decreed  that 
Mrs.  Ronald's  imprudence  was  to  be  chastised  by  future  deser- 
tion, why  Mrs.  Ronald  must  submit  to  her  fate. 

"  I  shall  never  get  over  this,"  thought  Mrs.  Ronald,  with  a 
sinking  heart — "  never." 

"Why,  what  a  pleasant  discovery  you  have  made  in  the 
world  of  "pretty  faces,"  said  a  cheerful  voice  at  Mrs.  Ronald's 
elbow. 

It  was  Mrs.  Brunton  who  spoke.  Mrs.  Brunton  was  neither 
young  nor  pretty,  but  she  had  a  cheerful  beaming  face  ;  and 
Mr.  Brunton,  on  "whose  arm  she  leaned,  was,  if  that  might  be,  a 
more  cheerful-looking  gentlemen  than  his  wife  was  a  lady. 
They  were  a  suitable  little  pair,  fond  of  company,  of  young  peo- 
ple, and  of  pretty  faces. 

"  I  think  she  is  quite  as  pretty  as  your  first,  dear,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Brunton,  addressing  her  husband  ;  for  she  was  his 
second  wife,  as  he  was  her  second  husband. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  think  she  is,"  replied  Mr.  Brunton. 
"  Poor  Fred  used  to  say,  you  know,  that  Mrs.  Brunton  was  a 
rosebud — " 


6i  sybil's  second  loye. 

"  No,  not  a  rosebud,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Brunton,  whose  first 
was  "poor  Fred," — "  a  rose  without  any  thorns." 

"  Ah  !  to  be  sure,  a  rose  without  any  thorns.  You  never 
knew  Fred,  Mrs.  Ronald,  did  you  ? — poor  Fred  Smith,  one  of 
the  best,  warmest,  finest  fellows  I  ever  met.  There  never  was 
such  a  man,  I  think." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Ronald,  who  saw  with  an  aching  heart 
that  Sybil  had  carried  off  another  prize — a  wealthy  bachelor,  at 
whom  there  had  been  considerable  angling  in  the  English  spin- 
ster world. 

Mrs.  Brunton,  who  was  shrewd,  though  good-humored,  saw 
this  too,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Ah  ! "  she  said,  "  that  little  Irish  beauty  will  have  made 
many  a  sore  and  ano;ry  heart  before  the  night  is  over." 

"  I  am  afraid  she  will,"  replied  Mrs.  Ronald  ;  "  and  to  tell 
you  the  truth — "  a  gentle  cough  behind  her  interrupted  what 
she  was  going  to  add.  Mrs.  Ronald  looked  round  and  saw  her 
companion,  Miss  Spencer. 

"A  friend  of  Mr.  Kennedy's,"  she  whispered,  "wants  him 
on  important  business,  and  Miss  Kennedy  must  leave  as  soon  as 
the  quadrille  is  over." 

Mrs.  Ronald  looked  interested. 

"  Is  that  Mr.  Smith  come  back,  then  ?"  she  whispered. 

"  Oh  !  no ;  this  is  a  very  handsome  and  gentleman-like 
man." 

"  He  did  not  send  in  his  card  ? " 

"  No,  he  introduced  himself  as  Mr.  Kennedy's  friend." 

Mrs.  Ronald  thought  this  odd,  and,  commissioning  Miss 
Spencer  to  go  and  find  out  Mr.  Kennedy  in  the  card-room,  she 
went  up  herself  to  Sybil,  and  gave  her  the  stranger's  message. 

Sybil's  bright  face  grew  clouded  with  disappointment  and 
discontent. 

"  lie  does  it  to  provoke  me,"  she  said  petulantly  ;  "  I  shall 
tell  him  so." 

She  obeyed  the  summons,  however.  Mrs.  Ronald,  who  felt 
inquisitive,  accompanied  her  down-stairs. 

"  Now,  uncle,  that  is  too  bad,"  she  cried,  as  he  came  for- 
ward and  bowed  to  Mrs.  Ronald,  who  stared  in  much  surprise 
on  hearing  the  word,  "  uncle,"  for  it  was  difficult  to  see  two 
men  more  different  than  were  Mr.  Kennedy  and  his  brother. 

"  Yes,  Pussy,  it  is,"  gavly  said  her  father. 

He  hastilv  apologized  to  Mrs.  Ronald,  hurried  his  daughter 


sybil's  second  love.  65 

away,  and,  entering  the  carriage  after  her  and  his  hrother,  he 
said  in  an  anxious  voice,  which  contrasted  with  his  gay  tone 
awhile  bach, 

"What  is  it,  Ned?" 

"  A  telegram  from  Partes,"  was  the  brief  reply  ;  "  he  has 
written — how  is  it  we  did  not  get  the  letter  ? " 

Sybil  felt  very  cross  with  her  uncle.  What  did  she  care 
about  Partes  and  his  letter  ?  Or  why  could  not  Partes  wait  till 
morning  ? 


-♦♦*- 


CHAPTER     IX. 

The  silent  drive  home  did  not  soothe  Sybil's  temper,  and 
when  they  reached  the  house  she  hardly  condescended  to  loot 
at  her  uncle.  She  ran  up  the  staircase,  uttering  a  careless  and 
scarcely  civil  "  Good-night,  uncle,"  and  though  he  followed  her 
closely,  she  never  looted  round. 

"  You  may  say  good-by,"  he  said  as  they  reached  the  land- 
ing together,  "  for  I  shall  be  gone  before  you  waten." 

Sybil  turned  round  and  held  out  her  hand  remorsefully. 

"Come  in  here,"  he  said  pushing  open  the  door  of  the 
drawing-room,  where  a  light  was  burning. 

Sybil  obeyed.  He  shut  the  door  after  her,  and  gave  her  a 
chair,  but  toot  none  himself. 

"  This  is  your  first  ball,"  he  began. 

"  Oh !  pray  don't  scold !  "  interrupted  Sybil  in  a  tone  of 
alarm. 

"  I  only  mean  to  warn,  Sybil.  As  I  was  waiting  for  you 
below,  some  ladies  came  down.  Their  comments  upon  you 
were  very  severe.  Do  you  tnow  how  many  enemies  you  made 
this  evening? — how  much  pain  you  inflicted  ?" 

"  I  wanted  to  pain  no  one,"  again  interrupted  Sybil. 

"  But  you  did  not  care  to  avoid  it.  The  pleasure  of  the 
hour  was  all  in  all  to  you,  as  the  pain  of  that  same  hour  was 
all  in  all  to  others.  I  tnow  you  cannot  help  being  admired, 
but  you  can  help  rousing  the  world  up  against  you.  It  is  very 
fictle,  Sybil.  May  be  it  will  smile  some  day  when  your  heart 
is  breaMne.     Thint  of  it  well." 

Sybil  shoot  her  hea^l  gravely. 


6G  sybil's  second  love. 

"  All  that  for  a  dance  at  a  ball,"  she  said. 

"Well,  it  is  a  long  sermon  for  a  brief  sin,"  he  replied  with 
a  smile,  "  but  then  I  am  ambitious  for  you,  Sybil.  Think  of 
what  you  are,  my  dear,  and  of  what  you  might  be." 

"  Well,  what  am  I  ? "  saucily  asked  Sybil. 

"  He  looked  at  her,  and  smiled. 

"  You  are  a  pretty  girl,  Sybil." 

"  And  what  else  ? " 

"  That  is  just  it — you  are  a  pretty  girl,  and  there  is  an  end 
of  it." 

Sybil  reddened.  She  was  pleased  and  pained.  His  look,  as 
it  rested  upon  her,  expressed  admiration,  and  that  was  pleasant ; 
but  admiration  thus  qualified  was  worse  than  censure,  and  Sybil 
felt  it  painful. 

"  I  might  say  more  if  I  had  time,"  he  resumed,  looking  at 
the  clock,  "  but  I  must  be  brief.  Do  not  think,  however,  that 
I  am  going  to  fall  into  the  commonplace  cant  of  the  nothing- 
ness of  beauty.  No,  Sybil,  whenever  you  are  told  that  beauty 
is  nothing,  do  not  believe  it.  What !  beauty  the  type  of  mind 
and  goodness,  of  heaven  itself,  nothing '  It  is  a  heresy  to  say 
it,  Sybil.  It  is  a  falsehood,  against  which  man  has  protested  for 
the  last  six  thousand  years.  Beauty  is  much,  and,  for  my  part, 
when  I  see  a  good,  beautiful,  and  accomplished  woman,  I  feel 
that  she  is  the  gem  of  creation." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  just  Blancbe,"  cried  Sybil,  ardently.  "  She  is 
all  you  say — good,  beautiful,  and  accomplished,  uncle." 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  Gently  and  tenderly  he 
smoothed  her  hair,  and  twisted  one  of  her  long  curls  around 
bis  finger. 

"  You  are  a  true,  generous,  noble  little  creature,"  be  said. 

"  Uncle." 

"  Yes,  cbild." 

"  Mrs.  Ronald  gives  a  party  next  week — am  I  to  dance  if 

igor  . 

She  stood  before  him,  her  eyes  all  innocence,  a  demure 
smile  on  her  lips.     He  smiled  too. 

"  Yes,  you  may  dance,"  he  said,  "  but  do  not  take  away 
the  partners  from  the  other  girls." 

He  watched  her  without  seeming  to  do  so.  He  saw  her 
standing  before  him  irresolute,  and  triumphant,  brooding  over 
his  last  words,  and  hesitating  between  duty  and  pleasure.  At 
•  length  she  looked  up,  and  said,  saucily,  "  I  shall  try,  uncle." 


sybil's  second  love.  G7 

"  No,  Sybil,  do  not ;  it  is  too  bard." 

He  spoke  so  severely,  tbat  tears  rose  to  Sybil's  eyes. 

"  What's  tbe  matter,  Pussy  ?  "  said  ber  fatber,  entering  tbe 
room. 

"  Uncle  bas  been  scolding  me,"  sbe  said,  angrily  ;  and,  with- 
ont  giving  ber  uncle  another  look,  she  walked  out. 

As  sbe  closed  the  door  she  heard  her  father  saying,  "  What 
has  Pussy  done  ? "  and  his  brother  replying,  "  She  has  been 
dancing  too  much."  But  it  was  as  well  she  did  not  hear  what 
followed.  Mr.  Kennedy  anxiously  inquired  if  Pussy  bad  over- 
heated herself,  and  when  Uncle  Edward  replied,  "  No,  but  sbe 
bas  taken  away  all  tbe  partners  from  the  other  girls,"  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy only  laughed,  and  carelessly  said,  "  Let  her,  Neddy,"  in  a 
tone  wbich  showed  that  he  enjoyed  his  daughter's  triumph. 

Sybil  entered  her  room  in  some  wrath. 

"I  detest  uncle,"  sbe  thought;  "he  is  cynical  and  disagree- 
able, and  I  do  not  wish  him  to  marry  deaf  Blanche.  He  is  not 
worthy  of  her." 

Sybil  was  undressing  as  sbe  thought  thus.  With  a  hasty 
band  she  pulled  the  wreath  of  roses  from  her  hair,  and  the 
bunch  of  roses  from  her  bosom.  Denise  bad  fallen  asleep  in  a 
chair  whilst  waiting  for  her  young  mistress,  and  Sybil,  though 
she  bad  a  warm  temper,  had  also  a  warm  kind  heart,  and  did 
not  waken  the  poor  tired  girl. 

"  I  wonder  he  could  think  of  Blanche,"  indignantly  con- 
tinued Sybil,  in  her  soliloquy  ;  "  does  he  suppose  that  she  would 
get  no  admiration,  and,  getting  it,  would  not  like  it  ?  But,  good 
gracious  !  is  that  a  letter  from  her  ? " 

A  sealed  letter  lay  on  her  toilet-table.  Sbe  seized  it,  tore 
it  open,  read  a  few  hues,  then  looked  at  the  direction.  It  was 
in  a  hand  which  bore  no  likeness  to  tbat  of  Blanche  Cains,  and 
it  was  not  addressed  to  Sybil.  For  a  moment  sbe  remained 
amazed  and  bewildered,  then  she  folded  up  the  letter  with  a 
trembling  band.  What  had  she  done  ? — what  would  her  father 
say  ?  Sybil  felt  frightened,  and  she  had  some  cause  to  feel  sc. 
That  letter  had  been  left  on  ber  table,  because  she  had  told 
Denise  she  expected  one  from  ber  friend.  It  was  important, 
and  she  had  caused  its  delay  ;  it  was  mysterious,  and  she  bad 
half  read  it.  Denise  now  awoke  with  a  start,  and  gave  her 
young  mistress  a  confused  stare. 

"  Go  to  bed,  Denise,"  said  Sybil,  gently  ;  "  I  am  not  un- 
dressing yet,  and  you  need  not  wait  for  me." 


68  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Oil !  but  I  must,"  said  Denise. 

"  No,  do  not — I  do  not  wish  it." 

She  spoke  so  positively,  that  the  servant-girl  obeyed. — 
Sybil  listened  to  her  heavy  sleepy  footstep  trudging  up-stairs, 
then  softly  stole  down  to  the  library,  guided  by  "the  sound  of 
voices. 

She  knocked  at  the  door,  but  they  did  not  hear  her,  and 
they  spoke  so  loud  that  she  could  not  help  hearing  them.  They 
spoke  in  English,  too,  and,  believing  her  to  be  up-stairs,  they 
thus  thought  themselves  safe  from  the  servants. 

"  He  has  been  my  curse,  and  is  so  still,"  passionatelv  said 
her  father. 

Rather  than  hear  more,  Sybil  abruptly  opened  the  door, 
and  stood  before  them  with  the"  letter  in  her  hand.  They  both 
seemed  so  much  surprised  at  her  sudden  appearance,  that  Sybil 
forgot  her  intended  preamble,  and  said  hurriedly  : 

"  I  am  yery  sorry.     It  was  left  on  my  table  by  mistake." 

Her  uncle  was  nearest  to  her ;  he  took  the  letter  from  her, 
looked  at  the  direction  and  the  broken  seal,  then  at  Sybil,  but 
said  not  a  word ;  whilst  Mr.  Kennedy,  unconscious  of  Sybil's 
real  offence,  said  angrily  : 

"  Why  did  you  come  in  without  knocking  ?  " 

"  I  wished  to  give  the  letter  at  once." 

"  How  came  you  to  have  it  ? "  he  asked,  with  sparkling  eves. 

"I  expected  one  from  Blanche  Cains,  and  Denise,  thinking 
this  was  it,  put  it  on  my  table." 

"  I  am  sick  of  Blanche  Cains,"  angrily  said  Mr.  Kennedy — 
"  what  is  it  about,  Ned?" 

His  brother  handed  it  to  him.  Mr.  Kennedy  glanced  over 
it,  and  said  briefly  : 

"  You  must  go  at  once — I  shall  go  and  fetch  you  the  papers." 

He  rose,  and  left  the  library  without  looking  at  Sybil.  She 
stood,  pale  and  trembling,  before  her  uncle.  He  stretched  out 
his  arm,  and  drew  her  toward  him. 

"  You  read  the  direction  ? "  he  said,  with  a  quiet,  but  search- 
ing look. 

Sybil  nodded. 

"And  what  else,  Sybil?" 

-'  The  first  three  lines,  uncle." 

"  Well,  do  not  look  so  distressed,  child.  If  I  had  a  seal  by 
me,"  he  added,  with  his  kindest  smile,  "I  would  put  it  on  your 
lips,  as  Alexander  did  with  Hcphaestion,  I  believe  ;  but  since  I 


sybil's  second  love.  69 

have  not,  I  simply  enjoin  silence  upon  you.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
you,  Sybil.  You  have  an  open  face,  too  open  by  far,  but  I 
know  well  enougk-that  you  can  keep  your  tongue  silent,  and  I 
need  no  more." 

•    Sybil  looked  at  him.      There  was  a  question  she  longed  to 
put,  but  his  eyes  gave  her  no  encouragement. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  for  my  part  I  should  not  care,  but  your 
father  would.     Trust  to  him,  child,  trust  to  him." 

"  I  do,  I  do !  "  cried  Sybil  eagerly ;  "  but,  uncle,  I  cannot 
forget  what  I  have  read,  and  it  was  about  the  dreadful  Mr. 
Smith !  " 

"  Well,  what  about  it  ?  " 

"  But,  uncle,  there  is  some  danger  for  you — I  cannot  help 
knowing  that." 

"  Never  mind,  child,  the  danger  is  not  great,  suiely,  since  I 
am  going  to  do  the  very  thing  against  which  that  letter  warns 
me." 

"  Oh  !  pray,  don't ! — pray  don't  do  it ! "  she  entreated. 

He  felt  her  trembling,  and  he  thought  she  was  cold.  He 
chid  her  for  running  down  iri  her  muslin  dress,  with  her  neck 
and  arms  uncovered,  and  spying  her  father's  cloak  on  a  chair, 
he  took  and  wrapped  it  around  her. 

"  I  am  not  cold,"  said  Sybil,  bursting  into  tears  ;  "  but  T  am 
unhappy.  Oh  !  why  will  you  go  ?  And  why  are  you  so  kind, 
when  I  know  I  have  been  so  naughty  ? " 

"  I  go,  Sybil,  because  I  must,  or  justly  forfeit  honor ;  and  I 
am  kind,  as  you  call  it,  because,  spite  all  your  sins,  and  they 
certainly  are  heinous,  I  cannot  help  being  fond  of  you.  And 
now,"  he  added,  taking  his  handkerchief  and  gently  wiping  her 
tears  away,  "  suppose  you  leave  me — I  hear  your  father  coming 
back,  and  you  will  only  interfere  with  us." 

Sybil  turned  to  the  door,  then  came  back. 

"  You  are  sure  you  forgive  me?"  she  said. 

"  My  dear,  I  was  never  angry  with  you.     I  cannot  forgive." 

"  Well,  but  tell  me  agaiu  I  have  done  no  harm  by  that 
letter." 

"  Then,  indeed,  if  Edward  tells  you  that,  he  will  tell  you  a 
precious  story,"  sharply  said  her  father,  entering  the  library  with 
a  packet  of  papers  in  his  hands.  "  He  has  lost  what  neither  you 
nor  any  one  else  can  give  him  back,  Sybil." 

Sybil  heard  him  and  remained  mute.  She  looked  from  one 
to  the  other  in  such  distress,  that  her  father  said  more  kindly, 


70  SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOVE. 

"  Never  mind,  Pussy,  there  is  no  great  harm  done — there, 


go         IV." 


"  Good-by,  uncle,"  said  Sybil,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

"  Good-by,  my  dear,"  he  replied  kindly,  shaking  her  by  the 
hand  ;  "  and  do  not  trouble  your  little  heart." 

"  Do  leave  us,  child,"  impatiently  said  Mr.  Kennedy. 

Sybil  obeyed;  but  she  could  not  help  feeling  that  if  ber 
father  humored  her  little  follies  more  than  her  uncle,  he  was  not 
so  kind  in  the  hour  of  grief  as  this  severe  censor. 

And  it  was  grief,  very  genuine  grief,  she  felt,  as  she  entered 
her  room  once  more.  Her  first  evening  of  pleasure  and  triumph 
ended  sadly.  For  after  all  she  liked  her  strict  uncle,  and  there 
was  danger  in  store  for  him,  danger  all  the  more  formidable  that 
she  knew  its  existence  and  not  its  nature.  Her  heart  sank  as 
her  imagination,  and  it  was  a  fertile  one,  pictured  many  a  form 
of  peril  lying  in  wait  for  her  uncle.  Whither  was  he  going  ? — 
she  did  not  even  know  that.  But  the  letter  she  had  glanced  at 
was  in  English,  and  it  spoke  of  Mr.  Smith  in  words  of  warning. 
What  had  he  done? — how  had  it  happened?  She  sat,  still 
dressed,  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  perplexing  her  mind  with  these 
questions,  when  she  heard  him  entering  his  room.  No  doubt 
he  was  packing.  Of  course  he  would  go  down  soon.  She  re- 
solved to  wait  for  him,  and  just  put  one  question  to  him  before 
he  left.  It  was  not  long  ere  his  door  opened  again.  At  once 
Sybil  stole  out,  and  before  he  had  reached  the  head  of  the  stair- 
case, she  stood  before  him. 

u  My  goodness,  child  !  "  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  concern,  "  do 
you  want  to  take  your  death  of  cold,  that  you  wander  about 
this  chill  house  in  that  muslin  dress  ?  Now,  birdie,  be  wise, 
and  get  at  once  into  your  warm  bed." 

"  I  am  not  cold,  uncle,  and  I  shall  not  delay  you,  only  do 
pray  tell  me  this — will  you  come  back  ? " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Oh !  but,  uncle,  can  you  come  back,  or  will  there  be  any 
thing  to  prevent  you  ?  " 

"  God  knows,"  he  replied,  rather  gravely — "  what  man  is 
master  of  his  fate  ? " 

Sybil  looked  at  him  with  such  distress,  that  he  at  once  re- 
pented having  spoken  so  freely. 

"  You  soft-hearted  little  thing,"  he  said,  "  do  not  trouble 
about  a  great,  careless  fellow  like  me — men  are  sure  to  do, 
Sybil." 


sybil's  second  love.  71 

"  Oh !  Lut  if  I  should  never  see  you  again  ? "  said  Sybil, 
ready  to  cry. 

"  Why,  the  loss  would  he  mine,  uot  yours  ;  hut  as  there  is 
some  danger  of  it,  Sybil,  good-by ;  and  if  it  be  forever,  why, 
let  it  be  forever,  my  dear  little  girl." 

He  took  her  iu  his  arms,  and  kissed  her,  then  hurried  down 
the  staircase.  Sybil  heard  the  door  of  the  house  close  upon 
him.  He  was  gone — gone,  spite  the  warning  words  which  she 
could  not  forget :  "  Go  farther  than  Saint  Vincent  if  you  can ; " 
and  instead  of  going  farther,  he  was  returning  to  seek  and  brave 
that  unknown  peril.  What  would  happen  ? — would  he  ever 
come  back  ? — should  she  ever  see  again  that  kind  face,  which 
had  looked  down  so  leniently  into  hers  this  evening  ?  She  reen- 
tered her  room,  undressed,  and  went  to  bed,  but  she  could  not 
sleep.  She  lay  awake  in  a  burning  fever,  remembering  every 
word  she  had  read,  or  he  had  spoken,  and  foreseeing  none  but 
the  moot  sorrowful  catastrophes. 


-+•4- 


CHAPTER    X. 

To  have  walked  about  a  chill  house  in  her  muslin  dress 
gave  Sybil  a  three  weeks'  illness.  Mr.  Kennedy  was  much 
alarmed  ;  then,  when  his  fears,  which  were  indeed  groundless, 
calmed  down,  he  was  concerned  at  the  depressed  state  of  Syb- 
il's mind.  Anxiety  had  added  to  the  fever  of  her  complaint. 
When  she  questioned  Mr.  Kennedy  concerning  her  uncle's  wel- 
fare, his  impatient  replies,  "  Your  uncle  is  very  well,"  or  "  Your 
uncle  will  do,"  rather  increased  than  lessened  her  uneasiness. 
This  she  did  not  express,  but  he  saw  it,  and  feeling  that  it  de- 
layed her  recovery,  he  reproved  her  for  it. 

"  I  tell  you,  child,  that  your  uncle  is  very  well,"  he  assured 
her  again  and  again. 

"  Will  he  come  back  ?  "  plaintively  asked  Sybil. 

"What  makes  you  so  anxious  to  have  him  ? — I  never  thought 
you  doted  upon  him,  Pussy." 

Sybil  reddened,  and  tossed  restlessly  in  her  bed.  She  could 
not,  or,  rather,  she  would  not,  tell  all  to  her  father.  She  would 
not  tell  him  that  every  night  she  had  the  nightmare  about  her 
uncle  and  Mr.  Smith — that  she  saw  them  engaged  iu  every  pos- 


72  Sybil's  second  love. 

sible  strife  and  contest,  and  that  Mr.  Smith  was  invariably  the 
victor. 

"  The  doctor  said  you  could  get  up,"  urged  Mr.  Kennedy. 

Sybil  shook  her  head,  and  shut  her  eyes.  She  did  not  care 
about  getting  up.  Her  father  was  engaged,  and  what  should 
she  do  up  ?  There  is  no  reasoning  with  sick  people,  so  Mr. 
Kennedy  knew,  but  he  tried  to  administer  a  remedy. 

"  Perhaps  your  Aunt  Glyn  will  come  back  now  that  Mr. 
Smith  is  gone,"  he  said. 

Sybil  looked  indifferent  and  cold. 

"  Or  Mrs.  Mush,"  suggested  her  father. 

"  I  don't  care  about  Mrs.  Mush,"  languidly  replied  Sybil — 
"  she  only  quizzes  me." 

Mr.  Kennedy  stooped  and  kissed  her  pale  cheek. 

"  Shall  it  be  the  angelic  Blanche  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Sybil,  with  a  flush  of  joy,  "  that  would  be 
glorious ! " 

She  hugged  him,  she  laughed,  she  cried  in  her  transport. 

"  Then  get  up  and  write  to  her,"  he  said,  tenderly. 

Denise  was  summoned.  Sybil  got  up  and  dressed,  and  when 
she  was  ready,  her  father  came  and  carried  her  down  in  his  arms 
to  the  library.  At  once  she  wrote  her  letter,  and  Mr.  Kennedy, 
who  had  business  in  Saint  Vincent,  promised  to  post  it  himself. 

Sybil  remained  sitting  where  he  had  left  her,  near  one  of  the 
windows.  She  saw  the  sunlit  cloister,  the  carved  cross,  the 
grasses  that  grew  between  the  flags,  and  she  felt  languidly  hap- 
py. The  sense  of  recovery  blended  with  the  joy  of  seeing  her 
friend  again.  She  forgot  her  nightmare,  Mr.  Smith,  and  her 
uncle ;  or,  rather,  remembering  him,  she  once  more  indulged  in 
those  reveries  about  him  and  Blanche  Cains,  which  had  already 
taken  so  strong  a  hold  of  her. 

"  Dear  Blanche  will  be  here  next  week,  perhaps,"  she 
thought ;  "  and  as  to  that,  so  may  uncle.  If  they  are  both  here 
together,  how  can  they  help  liking  each  other  ?  She  is  so  hand- 
some, so  good,  so  accomplished  ;  and  he  is  so  manly,  so  good, 
too,  and  though  not  so  handsome  as  Blanche,  very  good-look- 
ing. Besides,  he  is  wonderfully  clever,  and  Blanche  will  like 
that.  I  can  fancy  how  they  will  talk  together.  She  will  be 
quite  a  match  for  him,  which  I  never  am,  and  he  will  fall  in 
love  and  be  miserable,  and  tell  me  all  about  it,  and  I  shall  tell 
Blanche,  and  quiz  her  a  bit." 

Here  a  tap  at  the  window-panes  made  Sybil  look  up  with  a 


sybil's  second  loye.  73 

little  start.  She  uttered  a  cry  of  surprise  and  joy  on  seeing  her 
Uncle  Edward  looking  at  her  from  behind  the  glass.  He  stood 
in  the  cloister,  a  great-coat  on  his  arm,  and  a  carpet-hag  in  his 
hand — evidently  he  had  just  arrived.  Sybil  hastily  rose  and 
opened  the  window,  and  cried  out, 

"  Oh  !  uncle,  uncle,  I  am  so  glad." 

"Are  you,  Sybil?"  he  replied,  sparing  himself  the  trouble 
of  going  round  to  the  door  by  entering  at  once  through  the  open 
window  ;  "  but  how  pale  you  look ! "  he  added,  in  a  tone  of 
concern. 

"  I  have  been  ill,"  replied  Sybil ;  "  but  I  am  better  now. 
Uncle,  have  you  come  to  stay  ? " 

"Oh!  never  mind  the  future,"  he  carelessly  replied,  looking 
rather  worn  and  haggard ;  "  you  see  that  I  have  come  back 
after  all — and  so  you  have  been  ill,  birdie  ? " 

"  Oh !  it  was  only  a  cold,  bronchitis,  or  something  of  that 
sort.     I  am  so  glad  you  are  at  home  again." 

She  looked  very  glad  indeed,  so  glad  that  he  felt  moved 
thereby.  His  had  been  a  solitary  path  from  youth  to  manhood, 
with  few  flowers  of  affection  springing  by  the  way,  and  such 
stray  blossoms  as  he  got  were  not  to  be  despised.  He  looked 
kindly  at  this  young  girl  who  gave  him  so  cordial  a  greeting, 
hesitated  whether  to  leave  the  room  or  not,  then  making  up  his 
mind,  drew  a  chair  near  hers,  sat  down,  and  said, 

"  I  suppose  your  father  is  busy  ?  " 

"  He  is  at  Saint  Vincent." 

"  Oh  !  then  I  shall  wait  for  him  here." 

"  Do,"  said  Sybil ;  "  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you." 

"  Have  you,  though  ? " 

"Yes.  I  have  been  thinking  so  much  about  you  lately. 
Don't  look  at  me  so — I  am  not  going  to  question.  But  since 
you  have  come  back,  I  feel  as  if  it  must  be." 

Uncle  Edward  did  not  heed  her.  He  searched  the  pockets 
of  his  great-coat  with  a  look  of  alarm,  then  smiling,  brought 
forth  a  packet,  which  he  laid  on  Sybil's  lap.  She  opened  it, 
and  saw  bulbs  of  the  finest  kind,  bulbs  such  as  she  had  long 
wished  for,  but  could  not  procure  in  Saint  Vincent. 

"  Oh  !  how  kind — how  very  kind  you  are  !  "  she  cried,  with 
sparkling  eyes. 

"  Am  I,  though  ?    I  should  have  been  a  great  deal  kinder  if 
I  had  known  there  was  a  chance  of  your  escaping  ns,  birdie.     I 
can  see  you  have  been  very  ill  whilst  I  was  away." 
4 


74:  Sybil's  second  love. 

# 

He  spoke  very  kindly.  He  spoke  as  if  he  really  did  care 
for  her.     Sybil  felt  that  the  depths  of  her  heart  were  stirred. 

"  Uncle,"  she  said,  a  little  vehemently,  "  you  may  do  or  say 
what  you  like  henceforth — I  shall  never  quarrel  with  it  again — ■ 
never." 

"  My  dear,  I  do  not  mean  to  find  fault  any  more — I  am  go- 
ing to  become  one  of  your  admirers." 

"  No,  don't — pray  don't ! "  cried  Sybil,  alarmed  ;  "  you 
kn  ow  my  dear  father  spoils  me,  and  I  really  do  want  some  one 
to  blame  me." 

"  And  kindly  promote  me  to  the  office,  so  that  you  will 
hate  me  every  now  and  then." 

"  Oh  !  no,  not  hate  you." 

"Every  now  and  then  there  will  be  reconciliations  and 
quarrels,  and  our  friendship  will  be  like  a  young  torrent  leaping 
over  rocks  and  stones ;  whereas  I  would  have  it  a  fair,  placid, 
flowing  stream,  both  deep  and  still." 

Sybil  thought  awhile,  then  said, 

"  Uncle,  it  is  not  friendship  you  feel  for  me." 

"  Indeed  ! — pray  what  is  it  ? " 

"  It  is  liking,  but  not  friendship.  You  tell  me  nothing — I 
mean,  nothing  that  concerns  yourself." 

He  reddened  a  little  as  he  answered, 

"  I  cannot ;  my  secrets  are  not  my  own.  If  your  friend 
Miss  Cains  had  trusted  you  w ith  her  secret,  would  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  No — that  would  be  treason." 

"  So  it  would,  and  terrible  treason,  therefore  am  I  mute." 

"  She  is  coming,"  knowingly  said'  Sybil — "  the  letter  is 
gone." 

Uncle  Edward  looked  confounded. 

"  What !  Miss  Cains  is  coming  here  ? "  he  exclaimed. 

"  She  is." 

"  And  she  is  coming  here,  Sybil  ?  " 

"  Yes — why  not  ?  Papa  saw  me  so  dull,  that  he  gave  in. 
I  though  he  never  would." 

Her  uncle  looked  grave,  but  said  nothing. 

"And  you  shall  see  her  now,"  resumed  Sybil. 

"  Why,  what  a  marvel  is  this  Miss  Cains  !  "  he  asked,  re- 
covering his  usual  manner. 

"  I  should  think  so — so  beautiful,  so  clever,  so  amiable,  and 
so  good." 

Uncle  Edward's  gray  eyes  lit. 


sybil's  second  love.  75 

"  Take  care,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  such  a  portrait  may  prove 
delusive.     What  if  I  find  her  short  of  all  this  ? " 

Sybil  smiled  securely. 

"  You  will  find  her  far  beyond  it,"  she  replied,  "  for  habit 
hides  much  from  me,  which  you  must  perceive." 

"  My  dear,  good  little  Sybil,"  kindly  said  Uncle  Edward, 
"  happy  the  man  who  gets  your 

"  What !  with  all  my  faults  ? "  saucily  said  Sybil. 

'"Ay,  indeed — only  don't  throw  yourself  away — do  uot." 

Sybil  nodded  sagaciously. 

"  I  shall  try  not  to  do  so,"  she  said,  shrewdly. 

"  I  do  wish  you  would  make  a  confidant  of  me  when  that 
time  comes,"  he  continued,  "  and  let  me  advise  or  warn — will 
you?" 

No — yes,"  replied  Sybil,  a  little  startled  ;  "  but,  uncle,  she 
added,  quietly,  "  I  wish  you  would  marry  Miss  Cains." 

"  Sybil ! " 

"  Yes,  I  wish  you  would — I  am  sure  you  would  make  a 
good  husband." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  good  opinion  of  me." 

"  Ah  !  you  think  I  take  a  liberty." 

"  Not  I — only  pray  tell  me  ou  what  that  favorable  opinion 
is  grounded." 

'*  Uncle,  you  are  just  and  kind,  therefore  a  good  and  amiable 
woman  would  be  happy  with  you,  and  make  you  happy  too." 

"  '  Chi  lo  sa,J  as  the  Italian  sayeth.  Your  friend  is  very 
perfect,  Sybil ;  perhaps  I  require  a  spice  of  wickedness — some- 
thing in  your  way,  my  dear." 

Sybil  blushed. 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  be  naughty  again,"  she  said,  gravely. 

"  Do  not  be  too  sure  of  that.  Who  was  it  that  was  sick, 
and  a  monk  would  be  ? — " 

"  Never  mind,"  interrupted  Sybil,  with  a  merry  twinkle  in 
her  dark  eye — "  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  him,  have  we? — 
and  I  come  back  to  my  starting-point :  I  wish  you  would 
marry  Blanche  Cains." 

"  There  never  was  so  inveterate  a  little  match-maker ! 
Why,  what  puts  matrimony  into  your  head  this  morning?" 

"  Selfishness.  Oh !  it  would  be  so  pleasant  to  have  you 
both  here." 

"  Yes,  but  suppose  you  take  your  wings  and  fly  to  some 
other  nest,  leaving  the  fair  Blanche  and  your  humble  servant  in 
the  lurch  ? " 


76  sybil's  second  love. 

Sybil  replied  a  little  impatiently,  there  was  no  fear  of  that 
just  then,  and  came  back  to  her  argument. 

"  You  see,  uncle,  Blanche  is  just  the  girl  you  must  admire." 

"  What !  Blanche  again  ? " 

"  Yes,  Blanche  again,  for,  uncle,  you  are  quite  old  enough 
to  get  married,  and  since  dear  Blanche  is  coming,  that  is  just 
your  opportunity.  She  is  so  good,  and  has  such  beautiful  fea- 
tures, and — " 

"  You  imprudent  girl  !  "  he  interrupted.  "  I  shall  lose  my 
heart  on  your  description  ;  and  then  suppose  the  fair  Blanche 
will  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  how  shall  I  get  it  back  ? — my 
lost  heart,  of  course." 

Sybil  laughed  outright. 

"  You  are  not  so  susceptible  as  all  that,"  she  said,  "  and  you 
are  not  going  to  lose  your  heart  on  my  description." 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?  It  was  so  that  Colonel  Hutchinson, 
who  was  both  a  Puritan  and  a  Roundhead,  fell  in  love  with  the 
lady  whom  he  married,  and  a  false  report  that  she  had  wedded 
another  nearly  drove  him  distracted  before  he  had  even  seen 
her  face." 

"  Well,  uncle,  I  shall  say  no  more,  of  course,  but  I  do  not 
think  that  Blanche  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  you — she  has 
better  sense,  and  better  taste  too." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear,  I  call  that  a  nice  little  compliment ; 
but,  alas  !  what  has  sense  or  taste  to  do  with  these  matters  ? 
Miss  Cains  and  I  may  just  prove  foolish,  and  take  a  dislike  to 
each  other." 

"  Oh  !  but  that  would  be  too  bad,"  exclaimed  Sybil. 

"  What  would  be  too  bad  ? "  asked  Mr.  Kennedy,  unexpect- 
edly coming  in  upon  them. 

Now,  neither  cared  to  answer  this  question  quite  sincerely. 
Nevertheless  it  was  Sybil  who  spoke. 

"  Uncle  has  taken  a  prejudice  against  poor  dear  Blanche. 
But,  oh  !  papa,  how  soon  you  are  home  again.  Is  the  letter 
gone  ? " 

"  Indeed  it  is,  and  on  its  way  by  this.  So  Edward  is  not 
smitten  beforehand  with  the  fair  Blanche  ?     What  heresy  !  " 

"  It  is  heresy  ! "  said  Sybil,  gravely. 

They  both  laughed  at  her,  and  she  laughed  too,  but  she 
saw  them  exchange  a  perplexed,  troubled  look,  which  puzzled 
her.  They  soon  left  the  room  together,  and  as  they  did  so, 
Sybil  heard  her  father  answering  her  uncle  : 


sybil's  second  love.  77 

**  I  could  not  help  it." 

The  truth  flashed  across  her  mind  in  a  moment.  It  was 
her  uncle  who  had  caused  the  departure  of  Mrs.  Mush  ;  it  was  her 
uncle  who  had  prevented  the  coming  of  Blanche  Cains.  How 
unsociable  of  him  ;  but  may  be  he  had  a  reason.  Then  came 
some  thoughts  of  Mr.  Smith,  but  they  took  no  definite  shape, 
and  floated  dimly  through  her  mind — ghosts  of  the  fancy,  such 
as  haunt  us  all. 


-+*+-- 


CHAPTER     XI. 

Later,  when  she  looked  back  over  this  season  of  her  youth, 
Sybil  often  thought  that  these  wrere  perhaps  its  happiest  days. 
Her  recovery -was  rapid,  and  her  father's  tenderness,  her  uncle's 
kindness,  added  to  the  buoyant  sense  of  life  within  her.  To 
crown  all,  Blanche  had  written,  and  was  coming,  and  hope  and 
expectation  filled  Sybil's  heart.  Many  were  the  happy  evening- 
hours  she  now  spent  with  her  two  companions,  sometimes  in  the 
library,  sometimes  in  the  garden.  Her  Uncle  Edward  had  taken 
Sybil  in  hand  in  a  gentler  spirit  than  at  first.  Mr.  Kennedy  sat 
and  read  the  newspaper,  and  wrote  his  letters,  whilst  his  brother 
read  or  studied  wTith  Sybil.  He  seemed  resolved  to  atone  for  all 
previous  harshness  by  the  mildness  of  his  present  teaching. 
Teaching,  in  one  sense,  it  was  not,  for  Sybil  took  no  actual  les- 
sons, but  conversation  has  its  uses  and  its  power. 

Sybil's  mind  was  by  no  means  a  weak  one,  though  her  tastes 
were  often  frivolous,  and  it  amused  Uncle  Edward  to  draw  her 
out,  and  especially  to  provoke  her.  Their  conversations  were 
downright  contests,  in  which  he  invariably  took  the  part  allotted 
to  the  challenger  in  the  ancient  tourneys.  He  sat  in  his  saddle, 
lance  in  rest,  ready  to  bear  down  whosoever  entered  the  lists. 
Sybil's  knights  might  be  brave  and  fair — heroes,  poets,  philoso- 
phers— Uncle  Edward  cared  not.  His  business  was  to  tight, 
and  he  fought  stoutly,  till  he  either  conquered  his  poor  little 
enemy,  or  magnanimously  gave  her  a  chance,  and  let  her  escape. 
Sybil  liked  this  very  much.  Indeed,  she  thought  that  arguing 
was  decidedly  one  of  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  she  lost  no  op- 
portunity of  securing  that  pleasure.  Uncle  Edward  might  bo 
in  the  most  pacific  mood  ;  Sybil  cared  not,  she  liked  war  for 


78  Sybil's  second  love. 

war's  own  sake,  and  ever  found  the  means  to  rouse  Mm.  TJncle 
Edward  was  prose — or,  at  least,  said  he  was — and  Sybil  knew 
how  to  sting  him  by  an  extra  dose  of  poetry. 

On  rather  a  dreary  evening,  when  the  sea-wind  blew  dis- 
mally, and  the  rain  beat  against  the  window-panes,  Sybil,  look- 
ing round  her  with  a  sigh — her  father  was  buried  in  the  Times, 
and  Uncle  Edward  sat  with  folded  arms,  not  heeding  her — ex- 
claimed dolefully, 

"  I  do  wish  I  had  been  born  five  hundred  years  ago  ! " 

"  Five  ! "  gravely  said  Uncle  Edward. 

"  I  do,"  persisted  Sybil.  "  I  hate  these  matter-of-fact  days 
of  ours,  I  do." 

"  Now,  little  lady,"  said  Uncle  Edward,  looking  up,  "  no 
nonsense." 

"  It  is  not  nonsense,  uncle,  but  delightful  sense.     It  is  !  " 

"  I  wonder  how  you  would  bave  liked  it,  though." 

"  Amazingly,  Uncle  Ned." 

Uncle  Ned-fell  into  the  trap,  and  shook  his  heavy  hair  im- 
patiently. 

"  Well,  I  wonder  how  you  would  have  liked  living  in  the 
days  of  that  brave  and  loyal  knight,  Bertrand  du  Guesclin, 
whose  chronicle  I  have  been  reading  to-day.  A  true  knight  he 
was ;  but  alack  the  day !  those  were  queer  times  to  live  in,  Sybil. 
Some  fighting  then  went  on  between  England  and  France, 
and  money  having  been  at  all  times  the  sinews  of  war,  good 
Bertrand  gets  into  my  lady,  his  mother's  chamber,  and  carries 
oft'  her  jewel-box.  Madame  Mere,  though  as  pious  a  lady  as 
could  be,  resents  this.  Ere  long,  however,  good  Bertrand  makes 
amends.  He  encounters  and  slays  a  certain  English  knight  in 
whose  baggage  another  jewel-box  is  found.  Tins  he  dutifully 
presents  to  his  mother,  who  takes  it,  poor  pious  soul,  and  re- 
joices at  having  so  good  a  son." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  Du  Guesclin  was  a  thief,"  indig- 
nantly said  Sybil. 

"  A  thief! — who  said  he  was  ?  But  he  lived  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  and  that  was  an  arrant  thief,  for  it  held  these 
things  lawful,  and  admired  and  recorded  them.  For  all  that, 
very  pretty  is  the  chronicle  of  Du  Guesclin.  There  is  a  descrip- 
tion of  an  army  before  battle,  with  lances  gleaming,  trumpets 
sounding,  and  banners  waving,  which  will  charm  you,  Sybil, 
only  you  will  do  as  all  smoothers-down  of  the  Middle  Ages  do, 
vou  will  leave  out  the  black  spots,  the  free  companies  for  in- 


sybil's  second  love.  79 

stance,  whom  excommunication  could  not  keep  under,  and  who, 
when  they  went  to  be  relieved  from  the  Pope's  ban,  did  so 
plundering  on  their  way." 

"  Uncle,"  solemnly  said  Sybil,  "  you  take  one-sided  views. 
To  be  sure,  those  were  rough  times,  but  then  think  how  poetic 
they  were ! " 

"  I  wonder  who  saw  the  poetry  then,  Sybil  ?  The  minstrel-, 
the  troubadors  ?  I  doubt  it.  The  true  poet  sings  of  war,  but 
he  is  a  child  of  peace.  Besides,  the  finest  minds  did  not  turn  to 
poetry  then.  They  took  refuge  in  the  cloister,  and  hid  there 
from  the  stormy  world  without.  As  to  the  women,  I  wonder 
how  they  liked  the  poetry  of  an  era  which  made  them,  high  or 
low,  the  prey  of  the  strong.  Why,  a  little  girl  like  you,  Sybil, 
discussing  these  matters  would  then  have  been  something 
monstrous." 

Now,  the  intellectual  rights  of  her  sex  were  one  of  Sybil's 
weak  or  strong  points.  Uncle  Edward  had  invariably  opposed 
her  pretensions  on  this  score,  and  on  hearing  him  appeal  to  this 
old  ground  of  quarrel,  she  turned  upon  him  at  once. 

"  Ah  ! "  she  cried  triumphantly,  "  I  have  got  you,  uncle — I 
have  got  you  !     What  did  you  say  last  night  i  " 

"Some  foolish  thing,  I  dare  say." 

"  You  said  that  the  wish  to  know  was  the  modern  disease 
amongst  girls." 

"  And  so  it  is — a  perfect  depravity." 

"  Mediaeval — mediaeval !  "  cried  Sybil,  clapping  her  hands. 
"  You  want  to  keep  woman  in  the  ignorance  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  yet  you  invoke  that  ignorance  of  woman  against  them. 
I  don't  know  logic,  uncle,  but  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am,"  said  Uncle  Edward,  smiling. 

Svbil  ran  to  her  father. 

J 

"  I  have  beaten  uncle  in  argument,"  she  cried,  exultingly — 
"  is  it  not  glorious  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Pussy,  if  your  victory  be  genuine." 

A  saucy  "  of  course  it  is  "  was  going  to  be  Sybil's  reply,  but 
it  was  checked  by  the  opening  of  the  door. 

An  opening  door  may  seem  a  very  slight  thing  in  daily  life, 
but  there  are  times  when  it  is  quite  dramatic,  and  that  even  in 
the  most  commonplace  existence.  So  it  proved  now,  for  when 
the  door  of  Mr.  Kennedy's  library  opened,  it  was  to  admit  no 
less  a  person  than  Miss  Glyn. 

She  came  in  erect,  dignified,  and,  as  Mr.  Kennedy  saw  at  a 


80  sybil's  second  love. 

glance,  prepared  for  action.  "Whatever  he  might  feel  at  so  un 
expected  a  visit,  he  put  on  a  look  of  joyful  surprise,  that  sat  ad' 
mirably  on  his  handsome,  genial  face. 

"  My  dear  Mary,"  he  cried,  "  how  very  kind  of  you !  My 
brother  Edward — my  sister-in-law,  Miss  Glyn." 

Uncle  Edward  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace.  He 
bowed  and  smiled  ;  but  whether  that  smile  was  one  of  courtesy, 
or  was  suggested  by  the  extraordinary  expression  that  passed 
across  Miss  Glyn's  face,  Sybil,  who  looked  on,  could  not  deter- 
mine. That  some  strange  story  was  being  even  then  enacted 
in  her  presence,  she  saw,  but  its  nature  she  could  not  divine. 
Miss  Glyn  at  length  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  looked  at  her 
brother-in-law. 

"  That  is  your  doing,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said,  and  she 
walked  out  of  the  room  crimson  and  indignant. 

Mr.  Kennedy  laughed.     Uncle  Edward  smiled. 

"  My  presence  in  this  house  does  not  seem  very  acceptable 
to  Miss  Glyn,"  he  said  carelessly. 

"  She  will  get  used  to  it,"  as  carelessly  said  his  brother,  and 
they  spoke  at  once  of  other  things. 

Sybil's  perplexity  was  plainly  expressed  in  her  looks,  yet 
neither  brother  seemed  to  see  or  to  heed  it.  She  gazed  at  them 
earnestly,  and  they  no  more  minded  her  than  if  she  were  not 
in  the  room.  Her  curiosity  was  strangely  roused.  "  Perhaps 
aunt  will  tell  me,"  she  thought,  and  she  stole  out  of  the  library 
and  glided  up-stairs. 

Miss  Glyn  was  in  her  room ;  she  wras  in  the  act  of  taking  off 
her  bonnet,  but  she  put  it  on  again  as  Sybil  entered. 

"  You  are  going  away,  aunt  \  "  cried  Sybil. 

"  No,"  and  the  bonnet  wras  taken  off  once  more  and  tcssed 
on  the  bed.  Miss  Glyn  was  an  austere  person,  but  she  was  also 
dignified.  Such  little  bursts  of  temper  were  unknown  to  Sybil 
as  connected  with  her  aunt.     She  could  not  help  saying, 

"  Aunt,  what  has  happened  ? " 

"  I  think  you  know,"  was  Miss  Glyn's  sharp  reply. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  tbe  coming  of  my  Uncle  Edward. 
Aunt,  he  is  very  good." 

"I  expressed  no  opinion  on  this  subject,"  frigidly  said  Miss 
Glyn  ;  "  and  I  beg  that  we  may  drop  it,  Sybil.  Indeed,  we  have 
already  said  too  much." 

"But,  aunt, we  have  said  nothing,"  rather  petulantly  re- 
plied Sybil ;  "and  I  wish  you  would  not  be  prejudiced  against 


sybil's  second  love.  81 

him — lie   is   not  vulgar  like  Mr.  Smith,  but  a  perfect  gentle- 
man." 

"  I  must  really  trouble  you  to  leave  me,  Sybil ;  and  as  you 
go  down,  my  dear,  will  you  just  ask  your  father  to  let  me  have 
a  five  minutes'  conversation  with  him  somewhere — say  in  the 
drawing-room  or  in  the  dining-room — anywhere,  in  short." 

Sybil,  much  abashed  at  the  loftiness  of  her  aunt's  tone, 
obeyed  at  once.  When  she  had  reached  the  door,  Miss  Glyn 
called  her  back. 

"  Don't  send  that  goggle-eyed  French  maid  of  yours  with 
your  father's  answer,"  she  said,  tartly  ;  "  nor  yet  that  heathen- 
ish fellow,  Adonis." 

"  Narcisse,"  corrected  Sybil;  "  no,  aunt,  I  shall  come  mv- 
self." 

She  went  down  troubled  and  depressed,  but  not  so  felt  Miss 
Glyn.  She  had  come  post-haste  from  London  to  Saint  Vincent, 
and  she  had  come  expressly  to  expel  Mr.  Kennedy's  brother. 
Mrs.  Mush  had  apprised  her  of  his  existence,  and  as  Miss  Glyn 
objected  to  him  infinitely  more  than  to  Mr.  Smith,  she  had  de- 
creed that  leave  he  must.  But  it  is  awkward  to  turn  even  ob- 
jectionable people  out  of  other  men's  houses  ;  and  composed 
though  she  looked,  Miss  Glyn  was  a  little  flurried  when  Sybil 
came  back  to  tell  her  that  Mr.  Kennedy  was  waiting  for  her  in 
the  drawing-room. 

"  Very  well,  child,"  she  said,  slightly  agitated  at  the  ap- 
proaching battle  ;  "  I  am  going,"  but  she  waited  to  go  till  Sybil 
had  left  her  again. 

When  Miss  Glyn  at  length  entered  the  drawing-room,  she 
found  Mr.  Kennedy  waiting  for  her  there,  as  bland  and  smiling 
as  if  he  did  not  know  or  guess  what  his  sister-in-law  wanted 
him  for.  Miss  Glyn  had  resolved  to  be  very  cool,  very  lady- 
like, and  yet  very  determined  ;  but  Mr.  Kennedy's  smile  so  pro- 
voked her,  that  she  at  once  burst  forth  with  a  vehement, 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,  who  is  that  man  ? " 

Mr.  Kennedy  was  all  amazement.  What  man  did  Miss  Glyn 
mean  ? 

"  That  man  whom  I  saw  below,  Mr.  Kennedy." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  my  brother  Edward." 

"Your  brother! — you  have  no  brother!  "  cried  Miss  Glyn  ; 
"  and  I  know  it." 

"I  wonder,  though,  how  either  you  or  any  one  can  know 
that,"  coollv  said  Mr.  Kennedy. 
4* 


82  stbil's  secoxd  love. 

"  Because  not  a  soul  ever  heard  of  him  till  he  came  here — 
that's  all" 

"  My  dear  madam,  you  never  heard  of  him ;  but  allow  me 
to  assure  you  Edward  has  not  reached  his  present  age  unseen 
and  unknown." 

He  spoke  with  an  audacious  calmness  which  confounded 
Miss  Glyn. 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said  at  length,  "  when  Mrs.  Mush  told 
me  in  London  that  your  brother  was  here,  I  confess  I  thought 
she  was  inventing,  as  usual — for  of  course  a  person  who  talks 
so  much  as  she  does,  must  invent ;  but  as  there  must  be  some 
foundation  even  for  invention,  I  came  prepared  to  find  a  new 
edition  of  that  wretched  Mr.  Smith,  but  I  was  not  prepared  for 
this,  Mr.  Kennedy  ;  and  how  you  could  or  can  betray  your  own 
child,  and  have  a  strange  man  in  the  house  under  pretence  of 
his  being  her  uncle,  is  more  than  /  can  understand.  However, 
Sybil  is  my  niece,  and  unless  you  turn  me  out,  I  warn  you  that 
I  shall  stay  here  and  give  her  at  least  the  protection  of  my 
presence." 

Mr.  Kennedy  often  boasted  that  he  was  a  patient  man,  and 
that  he  could  keep  his  temper  under  some  trying  circumstances. 
Any  one  that  had  looked  at  him  then,  as  he  heard  his  sister-in- 
law,  must  have  acknowledged  the  truth  of  his  boast.  The 
smile,  courteous  and  friendly,  remained  fixed  on  his  face,  but 
his  eyes  sparkled  with  anger.  His  words,  however,  matched 
with  his  smile. 

"  My  dear  Mary,"  he  said,  kindly,  "  how  can  you  be  so  un- 
just as  to  suppose  your  presence  here  is  not  what  I  most  wish 
for  ?  Indeed,  Sybil  has  been  going  rather  wild  in  your  absence, 
and  your  return  is  a  Godsend.  She  has  been  to  a  party,  and 
made  quite  a  sensation  since  you  left  us.  Her  success  was  al- 
most greater  than  I  liked.  I  have  been  given  to  understand,  by 
Mrs.  Ronald,  that  I  can  get  her  a  husband  when  I  wish,  and 
though  of  course,  the  child  is  too  young — " 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  dryly  interrupted  Miss  Glyn  ;  "  and  con- 
sidering the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  case,  I  think  your 
daughter  cannot  be  married — well  married  of  course — too  soon." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Mr.  Kennedy.  "  Well,"  he  added,  after  a 
brief  pause,  "you  may  be  right  in  the  main.  We  shall  think 
over  it." 

But  even  this  conciliatory  speech  could  not  soften  Miss  Glyn 


sybil's  second  love.  83 

from  her  purpose.  She  gave  her  brother-in-law  a  hard,  obstinate 
look  of  her  brown  eyes,  and  said,  in  a  short,  sharp  tone, 

"  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  watch  that  inau." 

"  You  are  very  welcome,"  was  his  civil  reply. 

Miss  Glyn  felt  she  had  better  say  no  more ;  so,  with  a  distant 
bend  of  the  head,  she  left  the  apartment,  and  returned  to  her 
own  room.     She  there  found  Sybil,  troubled  and  anxious. 

"  Oh  !  aunt,  you  are  not  going  away  again  ? "  she  entreated. 

"  Going  away ! — no,  indeed !  Mrs.  Mush  is  so  prudent  and 
selfish  that  she  would  not  remain ;  she  got  out  of  it,  but  I  will 
stay  for  your  sake,  Sybil." 

Miss  Glyn  longed  to  add  a  severe  prohibition  concerning 
speech,  intercourse,  and  even  looks,  as  connected  with  Sybil's 
impostor  uncle,  but  prudence  bade  her  be  silent,  and  was  luckily 
obeyed. 

"  Aunt,  is  there  any  thing  about — about  Mr.  Smith  ? "  asked 
Sybil,  all  curiosity. 

"  It  is  worse — much  worse  ! "  solemnly  said  Miss  Glyn ;  but 
she  would  say  no  more. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

Miss  Glyn's  watching  began  that  same  evening.  She  went 
down  to  the  library  resolved  to  discover  some  great  fault,  or 
vice,  or  mischief  in  the  impostor — so  she  mentally  called  Sybil's 
uncle — for  nothing  would  convince  her  that  the  relationship  was 
at  all  genuine ;  but  to  her  annoyance  she  failed.  Uncle  Edward 
was  all  she  could  wish  with  Sybil ;  he  was  kind,  but  not  affection- 
ate. When  he  reproved  her,  it  was  sensibly  and  shrewdly,  and 
in  look,  manner,  and  bearing,  he  was  the  most  consistent  of 
uncles. 

"It  is  all  his  art,"  indignantly  thought  Miss  Glyn,  and  she 
gave  him  withering  glances,  which  frightened  Sybil,  but  which 
Uncle  Edward  bore  with  the  greatest  composure. 

The  next  day  rather  added  to  Miss  Glyn's  exasperation,  than 
lessened  it;  for  she  then  learned  from  Sybil  the  forthcoming 
arrival  of  Miss  Cains  :  also  that  Mrs.  Ronald  was  giving  another 
partv,  and  that  she,  Sybil,  her  father,  and  her  uncle,  were  all 


84  sybil's  second  love. 

going  to  it  that  evening.     "  And  you  must  come  too,  aunt," 
added  Sybil. 

"  That  settles  it  all,"  moodily  thought  Miss  Glyn  ;  "  the  im- 
postor will  appear  as  her  uncle,  and  his  brother,  and  how  will  it 
ever  be  possible  to  efface  the  impression  of  such  an  announce- 
ment ? " 

Miss  Glyn  wondered  whether  she  could  not  prevent  Sybil 
from  appearing  in  public  with  "  the  impostor !  "  but,  not  being 
of  an  inventive  turn,  found  no  better  expedient  than  to  be  very 
ill,  and  go  to  bed  just  as  Sybil  was  dressing  for  the  party. 

Sybil  at  once  volunteered  to  stay  and  nurse  her  aunt ;  but 
her  father,  who,  may  be,  saw  through  Miss  Glyn's  illness,  curtly 
forbade  her  to  think  of  such  a  thing.  So  it  was  decreed  that 
Sybil  should  go  all  the  same. 

"  And  I  am  so  sorry,  aunt,  you  cannot  come,"  said  Sybil, 
fastening  on  a  pretty  gold  bracelet,  her  father's  last  present,  by  the 
bedside  of  Miss  Glyn.  "  It  is  quite  tiresome.  Uncle  Edward, 
too,  declares  he  will  not  go,  at  the  eleventh  hour.  It  is  provok- 
ing ! " 

"  And  why  will  he  not  go  ? "  sharply  asked  Miss  Glyn,  vexed 
not  to  have  known  that  before. 

"  He  says  he  does  not  like  parties.  But  it  is  tiresome.  He 
let  me  think  the  whole  day  that  he  would  be  one  of  my  part- 
ners. And  it  is  most  provoking  ;  for  it  seems  I  must  not  waltz. 
French  girls  do  not  waltz,  as  a  rule,  down  here;  and  Mrs. 
Ronald  is  afraid  of  affronting  them — only  I  could  have  waltzed 
with  my  own  uncle.  But  he  never  said  he  Avas  not  going  till 
you  went  to  bed  with  that  bad  headache  of  yours." 

"  He  did  it  to  aggravate  me,"  thought  Miss  Glyn,  irefully. 
"  Well,  well,  we  shall  see  yet."  Vexation  and  annoyance  had 
given  her  a  genuine  headache  by  this,  and  it  was  quite  sincerely, 
though  somewhat  impatiently,  that  she  requested  to  be  left 
alone,  and  in  darkness.  Sybil  went  down,  very  sorry  for  poor 
aunt,  vexed  at  not  having  a  waltzer  in  Uncle  Edward,  but 
charmed  at  heart  after  all.  For  was  she  not  going  to  a  party, 
and  should  she  not  be  admired  and  courted  again?  She  was 
to  wait  for  her  father  in  the  drawing-room  ;  but  when  her  hand 
was  on  the  lock,  she  learned  by  his  voice  within  that  he  was 
already  there,  for  she  heard  him  saying, 

"  Now,  Ned,  you  must." 

To  which  Uncle  Edward's  voice  replied,  most  deliberately, 

"  I  will  not." 


sybil's  second  love.  85 

Sybil  felt  a  little  frightened,  and  entered  precipitately.  Her 
father  stood  with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand,  and,  as  Sybil  saw 
at  a  glance,  not  dressed  for  the  party.  He  detected  her  disap- 
pointed look,  and  said  a  little  hurriedly, 

"  I  cannot  take  you,  Pussy — a  very  provoking  piece  of  busi- 
ness keeps  me  here  this  evening ;  but  your  uncle  will  go  with 
you." 

He  gave  neither  uncle  nor  niece  time  to  reply;  but,  by 
leaving  the  room  as  he  spoke,  compelled  them  to  settle  this  del- 
icate matter  between  them.  Sybil  knew  now  what  her  father 
was  insisting  upon,  and  what  her  uncle  was  refusing  when  she 
came  in  upon  them.  She  sat  down  disconsolately,  and  said  not 
one  word.  Uncle  Edward  rose  and  came  up  to  where  Sybil 
sat,  with  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  bent  on  the  floor. 
She  looked  the  picture  of  disappointment  in  her  pretty  ball  at- 
tire, dressed  from  top  to  toe,  her  very  gloves  on,  her  fan  dan- 
gling on  her  arm,  her  little  satin  feet  sadly  tapping  the  oak  floor. 

"  Confess,  Sybil,  you  think  me  a  monster? "  said  Uncle  Ed- 
ward, trying  to  speak  gayly. 

Sybil  shook  her  head.  "  No,  she  thought  nothing  of  the 
kind.     Of  course  she  was  disappointed  ;  but  she  could  bear  it." 

Uncle  Edward  walked  about  the  room,  and  came  back  to 
her,  looking  troubled  and  perplexed. 

"  I  wish  I  could  please  you,"  he  said  ;  "  I  wish  your  aunt 
had  not  put  on  that  foolish  headache,  and  that  your  father  could 
take  you." 

Sybil  felt  provoked. 

"  Where's  the  use  of  wishing  ?  "  she  said  sharply. 

"You  mean  I  should  assist  you,  Sybil — I  cannot — I  must 
not." 

"  And  you  will  not,  uncle  ? " 

"  My  dear,  it  would  be  wrong,  very  wrong.  Your  father  is 
so  bent  on  pleasing  your  little  whims,  that  he  looks  over  every 
thing ;  but  I  think  more  of  your  good  than  of  your  pleasure." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  I  know,"  said  Sybil,  who  was  getting  cross.  "  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  be  much  obliged  to  you,  uncle,  but  you  see 
I  am  not.  You  could  give  me  a  happy  evening,  and  you  will 
not  do  it.  Of  course  you  mean  it  for  my  good,  but  as  I  cannot 
see  how  and  why  it  is  so,  I  do  not  feel  very  grateful." 

"  Sybil,  do  not  be  unjust." 

He  sat  down  by  her  and  wanted  to  take  her  hand,  but  Sybil 
would  not  grant  her  sinning  uncle  this  token  of  good-will. 


86  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Do  not  tempt  me,  Sybil,"  lie  said,  a  little  reproachfully. 

Of  course  on  hearing  this,  Sybil  tempted  him  at  once. 

"  Dear,  good  old  Uncle  Neddy,"  she  said,  turning  a  beam 
ing,  coaxing  face  toward  him  ;  "  I  shall  love  you  so  much,  1 
shall  be  so  happy,  if  you  will  take  me  this  one  evening.     Oh  ! 
do — pray  do  !  I  shall  not  dance  a  bit  more  than  you  like ;  and 
I  shall  not  want  to  be  admired — not  I." 

She  shook  her  head  in  demure  denial,  and  she  looked  so 
pretty,  that  Uncle  Edward  laughed,  and  said  frankly, 

"  But  you  cannot  help  being  admired,  Sybil." 

"  And  you  will  take  me  ? "  continued  the  little  siren,  softly 
smoothing  his  cheek  with  her  little  gloved  hand. 

There  were  many  reasons  for  which,  though  he  disliked  go- 
ing to  Mrs.  Ronald's,  Uncle  Edward  could  not  help  wishing  to 
please  Sybil.  He  felt  as  the  harshest  sometimes  feel,  in  the 
yielding  mood.  So  looking  down  at  her  with  a  smile,  he  hesi- 
tated, said  "  Yes,"  then  rising  from  her  side,  retracted  it  with  a 
sharp,  sudden  "No." 

"  That  is  too  bad,"  cried  Sybil,  and  she  burst  into  tears  ; 
but  the  yielding  moment  had  flown  by,  and  did  not  return. 

Uncle  Edward  was  sorry  for  her  childish  grief,  but  it  was 
childish,  and  it  did  not  change  his  purpose.  Sybil's  tears  were 
still  flowing  behind  her  little  cambric  handkerchief,  when  a 
knock  at  the  door  ushered  in  Denise,  and  behind  her  Madame 
de  Lonville.  Sybil  rose  rather  flushed  and  ashamed ;  then,  see- 
ing that  Madame  de  Lonville  was  in  full  dress,  and  evidently 
going  to  the  party,  she  flew  to  her  in  sudden  hope. 

"  Oh  !  dear  Madame  de  Lonville,"  she  cried,  in  eager,  broken 
French,  "will  you  take  me  to  Mrs.  Ronald's?  Papa  and  uncle 
cannot,  and  aunt  is  unwell,  and  I  must  stay  at  home.  If  your 
carriage  is  too  small,  ours  is  large  enough.     Oh  !  do." 

Madame  de  Lonville  was  rather  taken  by  surprise  at  this  eager, 
vehement,  and  decidedly  indecorous  address,  but  she  soon  re- 
covered, and,  indeed,  so  did  Sybil,  who,  blushing  and  ashamed, 
begged  her  pardon,  and  requested  her  to  be  seated.  Madame 
de  Lonville  complied  with  the  request,  and  looked  round  as  if 
for  Mr.  Kennedy. 

"  Papa  is  busy,"  said  Sybil,  rather  downcast,  as  it  occurred 
to  her  that  Madame  de  Lonville  had  come  to  talk  business 
with  Mr.  Kennedy,  "  but  that  is  uncle." 

A  cold  bow  and  hard  stare  were  exchanged  by  Uncle  Ed- 
ward and  the  lady  ;  then  she  coughed  a  dubious  cough,  and  said 
cautiously : 


sybil's  second  love.  87 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  were  not  gone — I  was  afraid  you  would 
be." 

Sybil's  heart  beat.  It  could  not  be  to  take  her  that  Madame 
de  Lonville  bad  come. 

"  My  errand  is  a  friendly  one,"  resumed  the  lady,  "  yet  do 
you  know,  dear  mademoiselle,  that  it  is  very  hard  to  express — ■ 
very?" 

Sybil  looked  as  she  felt — very  much  perplexed.  Madame 
de  Lonville  resumed: 

"Just  before  setting  out  I  received  a  visit  from  a  gentleman, 
who  will  not  be  named.  Through  him  I  learned,  my  dear  child, 
that  you  had  better  not  go  to  Mrs.  Ronald's  to-night." 

"  And  pray  why  so  ?"  asked  Sybil,  reddening. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  Mrs.  Ronald  has  for  years  past  been 
endeavoring  to  unite  her  French  and  English  friends,  and  she 
never  succeeded  till  the  other  evening,  when  your  success  made 
them  unite — I  mean  the  ladies,  of  course — against  you.  There 
was  quite  an  uproar  after  you  left ;  the  ladies  would  not  dance, 
and  the  gentlemen  were  punished.  I  see  you  are  shocked — 
well,  it  is  hard  ;  only,  as  you  took  all  their  partners  from  them, 
they  have  decreed  that  you  shall  have  no  partner  worth  having. 
So  if  you  go  to  Mrs.  Ronald's  to-night,  no  good  dancer  will 
ask  you." 

"  Then  I  shall  go,"  excitedly  said  Sybil,  who  looked  two 
inches  taller ;  "  I  will  not  remain  here  and  confess  myself  con- 
quered." 

"  But,  my  dear,"  impressively  said  Madame  de  Lonville, 
"  think  how  dreadful  to  be  the  laughing-stock  of  a  whole  room  ! 
All  the  men — all  save  the  one  who  revealed  to  me  this  cabal 
against  you — have  been  compelled  to  promise  that  they  would 
not  ask  you.  The  ladies  declared  that  unless  the  gentlemen 
yielded,  they  would  rather  never  dance  again  than  be  affronted 
as  they  had  been  the  other  evening.  In  short,  my  dear,  it  is  a 
dancing  strike." 

Sybil  was  too  much  mortified  to  take  any  pleasure  in  Mad- 
ame de  Lonville's  joke.  Tears  of  vexation  and  pain  rose  to  her 
eyes,  and  though  pride  would  not  let  them  fall,  the  struggle  was 
a  severe  one. 

"  I  consider  it  quite  providential  that  my  informant  sustained 
such  an  accident  that  he  could  not  possibly  go  to  the  party," 
resumed  Madame  de~ Lonville,  "for  otherwise  he  did  net  mean 
to  tell  me  this.      He  meant  to  dunce  with  and  avenge  you,  as  he 


88  Sybil's  second  love. 

said,  instead  of  which  he  would  simply  have  committed  you,  aa 
I  told  him.  For  what  would  the  world  have  said  if  it  had  seen 
you  dancing  with  none  save  one  very  handsome  young  man  ? " 

Sybil  did  not  answer — she  could  not.  This  was  her  first 
battle  with  the  world,  and  she  had  come  out  of  it  conquered. 
What  nothing  else  had  done,  jealousy  of  her  had  effected.  She 
had  reconciled  the  most  opposed  and  antagonistic  parties.  It 
was  a  hard  and  hitter  pill  to  swallow,  and  Sybil  was  not  proud 
enough  to  conceal  her  grief.  But  what  is  one  man's  poison  is 
another  man's  meat.  Mrs.  Ronald,  faithless  woman,  knew  of 
this  cabal,  and  rejoiced  in  it,  for  by  sacrificing  poor  little  Sybil 
to  her  enemies,  she  could  fulfil  the  end  of  her  existence,  the 
purpose,  no  doubt,  for  which  she  had  been  created.  Sybil  did 
not  know  this,  but  Madame  de  Lonville  knew  it  well,  and  Uncle 
Edward,  who  had  listened  to  her  revelations  in  attentive  silence, 
knew  it  too.  He  knew  more.  "Whilst  Madame  de  Lonville 
spoke,  his  keen  gray  eyes  never  left  her  face,  but  read  it  like  a 
book.  We  are  sorry  to  add  that  Uncle  Edward  liked  but  indif- 
ferently well  the  story  it  told  him. 

"  Miss  Kennedy  is  much  obliged  to  you,  madame,"  he  said 
gravely,  "  for  the  trouble  you  have  taken  on  her  behalf;  but 
she  was  not  going  to  Mrs.  Ronald's,  as  you  see.  Perhaps  you 
will  have  the  kindness  to  tell  Mrs.  Ronald  what  a  succession  of 
small  accidents  deprive  us  all  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  this 
evening." 

Madame  Lonville  would  be  most  happy  to  do  so,  and  she 
rose  and  took  her  leave,  comforting  poor  woe-begone  Sybil. 

"  Ob  !  Miss  Kennedy  will  be  a  match  for  them  yet,"  gayly 
said  Uncle  Edward ;  "  I  suppose  that  if  it  becomes  known  her 
father  too  means  to  give  balls,  it  will  change  matters  wonder- 
fully." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  do  believe  it  will,"  slowly  said  Madame  de 
Lonville,  "  the  drawing-room  is  large  at  Saint  Vincent.  Do  not 
fret,  my  dear — this  is  but  a  cloud,  it  will  passtaway." 

She  waddled  off;  Sybil  was  too  miserable  to  think  of  seeing 
her  out.  But  Uncle  Edward  escorted  her  with  scrupulous  po- 
liteness. 

"  Uncle,  none  of  these  girls  shall  ever  enter  this  house," 
jried  Sybil  with  flashing  eyes,  when  he  came  back — "  never,  I 
cannot  endure  the  sio-ht  of  them.  I  had  not  deserved  that. 
What !  all  against  me,  and  the  men  too — only  one  who  was  not 
a  coward  ? " 


sybil's  second  love.  89 


■  ' 


Her  lips  trembled  with  indignation.  Uncle  Edward  tried 
to  comfort  her ;  but  she  would  not  heed  him.  Sybil  was  ill- 
used  and  wronged,  and  declared  in  one  breath  that  sbe  "  did 
not  care  a  pin  about  it;"  and  in  the  other,  that  she  "had never 
spent  so  miserable  an  evening." 

"  Wait  till  it  is  out,"  said  Uncle  Edward,  looking  at  his 
watch,  "  it  is  not  nine  yet." 

"  Oh,  uncle ! "  cried  Sybil  with  sparkling  eyes,  "  do  7011 
tbink  Blanche  will  come  ? " 

"  Strange  things  happen  daily,"  he  replied. 

"  Yes,  but  then  how  should  you  know  1 " 

"How  do  I  know  a  hundred  things  of  which  your  ladyship 
has  no  conception  ?  Birds  in  the  air  give  me  information.  Your 
cat  Minette  tells  me  all  sorts  of  things :  chairs  and  tables  let  out 
secrets;  in  short,  I  have  many  ways  and  means  of  getting 
knowledge." 

Uncle,  you  are  in  very  good  spirits  to-night,"  said  Sybil ; 
"  you  look  ten  years  younger." 

"  Do  I  ?  Then  I  suppose  it  is  because  the  spirit  of  proph- 
ecy is  upon  me.  Or  is  it  the  prospect  of  seeing  the  peerless 
Blanche  ? " 

"  She  is  peerless,  "  cried  Sybil ;  "  and  if  she  comes  to-night 
I  shall  be  glad  to  have  remained  within,  whatever  you  may  think, 
uncle." 

"  Ah  !  but  remember  that  dreadful  cabal." 

"  I  do,  and  I  scorn  it — I  know  Blanche  would.  There,  you 
laugh.  Now,  uncle,  confess  you  have  taken  a  prejudice  against 
poor  dear  Blanche  !  " 

"  No — but  I  am  apt  to  form  my  own  opinions  of  people." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  for  her,"  cried  Sybil  warmly,  "  she  will 
stand  the  test — no,  uncle,  you  cannot  imagine  what  she  is." 

"  I  suppose  not — only  the  more  you  praise  her,  Sybil,  my 
dear,  the  more  I  like  you.  I  do  believe  you  have  one  of  the 
finest  and  the  mjost  generous  natures  I  ever  knew." 

Sybil  looked  at  him  with  some  wonder.  His  gray  eyes 
sparkled  as  they  were  bent  on  her.  His  pale  face  was  slightlj 
flushed,  and  overflowed  with  tenderness  and  admiration. 

"  Sybil,  my.  dear  little  Sybil,"  he  said,  taking  one  of  hei 
hands  and  pressing  it  softly  between  his  own,  "the  world  is 
often  very  cruel.  The  world  may  tell  you  some  day  that  Uncle 
Edward  did  not  value  you  as  you  should  be  valued  ;  that  he  held 
you  lightly,  and  as  a  thing  of  litlle   worth  ;  never  believe  it, 


90  Sybil's  second  love. 

Sybil — never.  But  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  love  you  truly 
and  dearly — no  brother  ever  loved  a  darling  sister  better." 

"  Nor  uncle  a  niece,"  said  Sybil  gayly. 

"  Our  years  are  more  those  of  brother  and  sister  than  of 
uncle  and  niece,"  he  replied ;  "  and,  Sybil,  I  don't  want  your 
respect  so  much  as  your  confidence  and  affection." 

"  Well,  then,  uncle,  I  shall  tell  you  something,"  confiden- 
tially said  Sybil,  drawing  her  chair  nearer  to  his. 

"  Do,  my  dear." 

"  At  first  I  did  not  like  you  at  all — I  mean  before  I  saw  you." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Then  for  two  days  I  liked  vou." 

"  Go  on." 

"  After  that  I  disliked  you." 

"  That  was  an  improvement." 

"  Then  I  got  to  like  you  realty,  you  know." 

"  All  right." 

"  And  now,  uncle.  I  am  quite  fond  of  you." 

She  spoke  triumphantly,  but  was  somewhat  amazed  to  see 
the  change  which  came  over  Uncle  Edward's  face  as  he  spoke. 
Infinite  softness  beamed  in  his  eyes,  but  they  did  not  gaze  on 
her;  his  lips  trembled  with  a  smile,  but  it  seemed  to  Sybil  that 
in  that  smile  she  had  no  part. 

"  Uncle,"  she  said,  a  little  abruptly,  "  what  are  you  thinking 

"  Nothing,  my  dear  ;  but  I  believe  your  friend  has  arrived — 
I  heard  a  carriage." 

Sybil  started  to  her  feet,  and  rushed  down-stairs,  reckless  of 
her  Indian  muslin  dress,  which  caught  in  a  treacherous  nail,  and 
got  a  fearful  tear.  In  a  moment  she  was  at  the  gates,  in  an- 
other moment  she  was  clasping  Blanche  Cains  in  her  arms. 

"  Oh !  Blanche,"  she  cried,  "  I  have  got  you  at  last — at 
last!"  h      J 

A  fair  face  was  bent  over  hers,  gentle  lips  were  pressed  to 
her  cheek,  and  a  fond  pressure  of  the  hand  silently  answered 
Sybil's  warm  greeting. 

"  Come  in  !  come  in  !  "  she  cried,  joyfully  ;  "  my  new  uncle 
is  here,  and  I  want  him  to  see  you.  We  were  talking  about 
you,  and  expecting  you." 

She  ran  first,  again  heedless  of  the  muslin,  and  entered  the 
drawing-room  with  a  joyful 

"  Here  she  is  uncle  ! — here  she  is  ! " 


sybil's  second  love.  91 

But  unwilling,  bo  doubt,  to  intrude  on  the  interview  of  the 
two  friends,  Uncle  Edward  bad  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

"  He  is  gone  !  "  cried  Sybil,  much  disappointed — "  what  a 
shame ! — but  then  I  shall  have  you  all  to  myself ;  let  me  look  at 
you,  darling,  and  do  take  off  that  horrid  cloak." 

With  careless  grace  Miss  Cains  dropped  her  cloak  on  the 
nearest  chair,  and  stood  before  her  friend  tall,  stately,  and,  there 
could  be  no  doubt  about  it,  eminently  handsome.  Sybil  looked 
at  her  admiringly,  and  well  she  might. 

Miss  Cains  certainly  was  a  very  fine  young  woman.  She 
was  tall  and  rather  large,  perhaps,  but  she  had  a  grand  look,  es- 
pecially about  the  head  and  shoulders,  which  threw  poor  little 
Sybil  in  the  shade.  Grace  was  in  all  her  motions,  and  with  it 
something  more.  "  She  is  set  to  music,"  Sybil  said,  enthusias- 
tically, and  so  she  was  in  a  certain  way.  In  her  dwelt  the  har- 
mony which  belongs  to  perfectly  formed,  though  somewhat  lan- 
guid limbs,  to  unbroken  health,  and  nerves  of  steel.  Nothing 
startled,  and  very  few  things  excited  Miss  Cains.  She  was  not 
cold,  and  by  no  means  apathetic ;  but  hers  was  the  tranquil 
warmth  of  autumn,  rather  than  the  fervid  heat  of  spring.  You 
read  this  in  her  handsome  face,  with  its  unvarying  complexion 
of  pure  red  and  white,  with  its  calm,  though  bright  blue  eyes, 
and  its  tranquil  Greek  features.  A  square  chin,  which  some- 
what marred  the  beauty  of  her  countenance,  also  gave  it  the 
meaning  of  strength  and  will  associated  with  the  development 
of  that  feature.  A  pretty  dimple  in  it  redeemed  the  sternness 
of  this  rather  Napoleonic  outline,  and  a  rosy  smile  contradicted 
it  completely.  To  these  attractions  were  added  a  genial  face 
and  a  genial  voice.  No  one  took  pleasure  so  readily  as  Miss 
Cains — to  enjoy  seemed  her  nature,  and  she  looked  one  of  those 
free,  open  creatures,  whose  charm  it  is  to  spread  their  own 
geniality  around  them.  Something,  indeed,  she  failed  in.  The 
delicacy  and  sensitiveness  of  Sybil's  face  were  wanting  in  hers, 
and  she  had  not  Sybil's  tine  impassioned  eyes  ;  but  the  first  im- 
pression was  in  her  favor,  and  the  first  impression  rules  us  all. 

"Oh!  how  handsome  you  are,"  said  Sybil,  with  sparkling 


92  sybil's  second  love. 

eyes.  "Blanche,  you  will  avenge  me.  They  have  a  caha, 
against  me  in  this  shabby  little  place,  but  they  cannot  have  a 
cabal  against  you — you  will  take  all  their  dancers  away  whether 
they  like  it  or  not." 

"  Why,  you  mischievous  little  thing,  what  have  you  been 
doing  to  have  a  cabal  against  you  ? — but  you  are  going  to  a* 
party,  are  you  not  ? "  she  added,  glancing  expressively  at  Sybil's 
dress. 

"  I  was  going  to  one,"  replied  Sybil,  with  bitter  emphasis, 
"  but  there  was  a  cabal  against  me." 

In  a  few  words  she  told  her  the  whole  story,  adding,  by  way 
of  conclusion, 

"  I  would  have  gone  all  the  same,  if  Uncle  Edward  would 
but  have  taken  me." 

"  I  fear  I  am  the  cause  of  Uncle  Edward's  leaving  the 
room,  am  I  not?"  said  Miss  Cains. 

"  If  he  left,  Blanche,  it  was  that  we  might  be  free." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  I  am  nobody,"  carelessly  said  Blanche ;  "  do 
not  suppose  I  am  hurt  or  offended.  I  expect  no  courtesy,  I 
mean  no  marked  courtesy,  from  any  one." 

Sybil's  expressive  countenance  became  full  of  concern. 

"Pray  don't  go  and  think  that,"  she  said — "  pray  don't." 

"  My*  dear,  I  think  nothing." 

"  Yes,  you  do,  and  to  show  you  how  mistaken  you  are,  I 
shall  go  aud  fetch  uncle  directly." 

"  Not,  on  my  account,"  said  Miss  Cains ;  but  she  spoke  a 
little  faintly,  and  Sybil,  declaring  she  should  not  be  five  minutes 
away,  went  on  her  errand.  She  ran  up  quickly  to  Uncle  Ed- 
ward's room,  and  knocked  at  the  door,  but  got  no  answer. 
And  as  no  light  came  through  the  keyhole  on  the  dark  landing, 
it  was  plain  he  was  not  within.  Sybil  was  turning  away  disap- 
pointed, when  her  aunt's  door  opened,  and  Miss  Glyn  appeared 
on  the  threshold  in  her  flannel  morning-gown,  and  a  light  in  her 
hand. 

"Sybil !  "  she  said,  in  amazement. 

"  Blanche  has  just  arrived,"  breathlessly  said  Sybil,  "  and  1 
am  hunting  for  uncle,  to  introduce  him  to  her." 

-And  the  party?" 

"  I  did  not  go.  I  had  uo  one  to  take  me ;  besides  there  is 
a  dreadful  cabal  against  me.  But  I  wish  I  could  find  uncle, 
Have  you  heard  him,  .aunt  ? " 

"  Sybil,  go  to  your  room  and  change  your  dress." 


sybil's  second  love.  93 

"  I  can't,  aunt,  Blanche  is  alone  below." 

"  Do  as  I  tell  you.  You  have  had  one  cold  already — that 
is  enouo-h.     I  shall  dress,  and  qo  and  receive  Miss  Cains." 

For  her  friend's  sake  Sybil  thought  it  better  to  obey.  In- 
deed, the  delay  was  not  a  long  one  ;  in  a  few  minutes  Sybil  had 
changed  her  dress,  and  was  running  down  the  staircase. 

"I  cannot  find  him,"  she  cried,  opening  the  drawing-room 
door ;  but  had  scarcely  time  to  say  the  words  before  she  per- 
ceived her  uncle  standing  near  the  fireplace,  and  talking  to  Miss 
Cains. 

"  Why,  uncle,  where  have  you  been  hiding  ?  "  cried  Sybil, 
all  amazement. 

"  I  have  not  been  hiding,  my  dear,"  he  composedly  replied, 
"  but  introducing  myself  to  Miss  Cains." 

"  But  how  did  I  miss  you  ? "  urged  Sybil.  "  I  cannot  un- 
derstand it." 

"  Nor  I,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  I  must  go  and  look  for  papa,"  said  Sybil,  starting  up  from 
her  chair  with  the  thought,  "  he  does  not  know  you  are  here, 
or  he  wrould  already  have  been  to  see  you — he  must  be  longing 
to  know  you." 

She  was  already  at  the  door  of  the  room,  when  it  opened 
and  admitted  Miss  Glyn,  who  entered  with  much  stateliness. 
Sybil  greeted  her  with  the  ardent  exclamation  : 

"  Aunt,  that  is  dear  Blanche  Cains  at  last !  " 

Miss  Glyn  bore  the  overwhelming  uews  with  much  compo- 
sure, and  formally  made  Miss  Cains  welcome;  then  sat  down, 
and  looked  hard  at  her.  Sybil  was  rather  disappointed  at  her 
aunt's  coolness,  but  her  hopes  rose  again  as  she  heard  her  father's 
voice.  He  would  appreciate  Miss  Cains.  Mr.  Kennedy  entered 
the  room  as  she  came  to  this  conclusion ;  again  Sybil  performed 
one  of  her  ardent  introductions.  Mr.  Kennedy  went  up  to  his 
young  guest  in  a  free  and  friendly  manner,  welcomed  her  to  his 
house  with  great  seemiug  cordiality,  questioned  her  concerning 
her  journey,  the  weather  she  had  left  behind  her;  and  after 
standing  talking  with  her  for  five  minutes,  he  wrent  and  joined 
his  brother,  with  whom  he  was  soon  in  close  converse.  Sybil 
was  disappointed.  She  had  expected  that  her  lather,  at  least, 
would  be  charmed  with  her  friend  ;  now,  it  was  plain  that  Mr. 
Kennedy  admired  Miss  Cains  as  a  man  ever  admires  a  tine 
woman,  but  that  beyond  this  he  did  not  go.  Sybil  could  find 
no  trace  of   sympathy,  or  emotion,  or  dawning  liking,  in   hei 


94  sybil's  second  love. 

father's  countenance   and   manner,  and  it  vexed  her   exceed 
ingly. 

If  Miss  Cains  detected  any  thing  of  the  kind,  she  showed 
no  resentment  of  it.  She  chatted  gayly  with  Sybil,  gave  her 
all  the  school  news,  and  looked  as  brilliant  and  fresh  as  if  she 
had  not  had  a  long  and  fatiguing  journey  that  day.  Sybil,  who 
vao-uely  felt  that  something  was  wanting  to  the  reception  of  her 
friend,  was  bent  on  securing  her  admiration,  at  least,  and  asked 
her  to  sing,  if  she  were  not  fatigued. 

Miss  Cains  smiled. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  know  I  am  never  fatigued ;  but 
then  I  only  sing  duets." 

Sybil's  facefell ;  she  had  a  pretty  voice,  but  she  could  not 
sing  with  Blanche  Cains. 

"  Sybil,  why  don't  you  ask  me  ?  "  whispered  Uncle  Edward, 
bending  over  her  chair. 

Sybil,  who  had  no  suspicion  that  her  uncle  could  sing,  was 
both  charmed  and  surprised  at  the  suggestion ;  but  still  doubt- 
ing his  efficiency,  and  remembering  that  Blanche  Cains  could 
sing  none  but  Italian  music,  she  asked  bluntly, 

"  Can  you  sing,  uncle  ? " 

Uncle  Edward  smiled. 

"  Yes,  he  could." 

"  Then  I  shall  accompany  you  !  "  cried  Sybil,  all  joy., 

"  Darling,"  said  Miss  Cains,  "  I  like  accompanying  myself 
best." 

"  Then  I  shall  listen,"  submissively  said  Sybil. 

And  so  she  did.  She  drew  a  low  chair  forward,  and  sitting 
upon  it  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knees,  she  listened, 
rapt  in  admiration,  whilst  Miss  Cains  and  her  uncle  sang. 

They  both  had  fine  voices,  and  both  sang  well,  and  in  won- 
derful harmony.  They  took  their  audience  by  surprise.  Miss 
Glyn,  though  compelled  to  admire,  looked  none  the  better 
pleased  for  it ;  but  Mr.  Kennedy,  who  was  fond  of  music,  was 
evidently  charmed ;  and  Sybil  was  in  the  seventh  heavens. 

"  Oh  !  uncle,  it  was  divine !  "  she  cried,  when  he  came  back 
to  her.     "  What  a  beautiful  voice  you  have !  but  what  a  shame 
■  not  to  have  let  us  bear  it  before." 

"  The  merit  lies  all  with  Miss  Cains,  my  dear." 

But  for  once  Sybil  forgot  to  give  the  palm  to  her  friend. 
Her  uncle's  voice  was  the  finer  of  the  two,  and  though  she  did 
not  say  so,  even  Blanche  saw  she  thought  it. 


Sybil's  second  love.  95 

"  Oh  !  papa,  what  a  shame  not  to  have  told  me  about  uncle's 
singing,"  she  said,  reproachfully. 

"My  dear,  Neddy's  accomplishment  is  new  to  me — we  all 
owe  the  knowledge  of  it  to  Miss  Cains.  But  will  she  not  favor 
us  ajcain  ? " 

This  time  Miss  Cains  required  no  pressing.  She  sat  down 
to  the  piano,  and  sang  alone  ;  to  Sybil's  surprise,  and  to  her  an- 
noyance, she  did  not  sing  very  well,  not  at  least  to  advantage. 
So  to  make  up  for  this,  she  whispered  to  her  Uncle  Edward, 

"  Is  she  not  handsome  ?  " 

K  Very  ;  but  how  well  you  look  to-nigbt,  Sybil !  N/o  wonder 
they  bad  a  cabal  against  you." 

"  Blanche  will  break  the  cabal,"  sagaciously  replied  Sybil ; 
"  look  at  her  hair — is  it  not  like  sunshine  ? " 

He  looked  from  Miss  Cains  to  Sybil,  and  all  he  said  was, 

"I  cannot  help  thinking,  Sybil,  that  you  admire  Miss  Cains 
on  speculation." 

Sybil  looked  surprised  and  inquiring. 

"Admiration  becomes  you  so  well.  That  is  my  meaning, 
my  dear." 

Miss  Cains  came  up  and  resumed  her  seat,  and  Sybil  could 
not  utter  the  petulant  reply  her  uncle's  complimentary  remark 
had  suggested. 

The  whole  family  sat  up  late  and  had  supper,  and  after  sup- 
per, sat  again,  and  one  struck  as  Sybil  and  Miss  Cains  retired 
for  the  night.  They  first  went  to  Sybil's  room.  With  this 
dainty  little  bower  Miss  Cains  seemed  much  smitten. 

"  Oh  !  you  bappy  little  thing  !  "  she  said,  sinking  down  in  a 
luxurious  chair,  "  what  a  nest  you  have  !  " 

Her  look  wandered  over  Sybil's  pretty  room,  with  its  ele- 
gant and  comfortable  furniture,  and  all  its  dainty  toys,  and  there 
was  just  a  sigh,  not  of  envy,  but  appreciation,  as  she  uttered  the 
words.  Indeed,  it  was  plain  to  an  acute  observer,  that  Miss 
Cains  was  no  ascetic.  To  do  her  justice,  she  professed  nothing 
of  the  kind.  She  had  always  loved  her  ease,  and  had  never 
denied  it.  She  was  frankness  itself  in  some  things,  though,  like 
most  of  her  slandered  sex,  there  were  plenty  of  things  concern- 
ing which  she  could  keep  her  own  counsel.  That  she  bad  a 
failing  for  fine  apparel,  jewels,  and  luxurious  furniture,  she  con- 
fessed freely.  Cfiina  and  laces  were  her  adoration.  •  Her  eyes 
sparkled  when  she  spoke  of  them,  and  there  was  an  eager  yearn- 
ing in  her  voice,  or  a  languishing  softness,  both  of  which  told  of 
longing  and  desire. 


9G  Sybil's  second  love. 

"  Shall  we  change  rooms  ^"  eagerly  said  Sybil.  "  I  gave 
you  Mrs.  Mush's  room  because  it  has  a  liner  prospect  than 
mine."  • 

Blanche  laughed. 

"  Yes,  I  remember — you  were  all  for  prospect  and  shy,  and 
you  fell  in  love  with  the  Surrey  hills,  having  nothing  better ; 
but  it  is  like  you  to  want  to  give  me  your  room.  You  are  a 
queer  little  girl." 

"  But  do  take  it,  Blanche — do." 

"  No ;  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  But  I  say  it  again,  you 
are  a  queer  little  girl.  Now  to  think  of  your  wearing  that 
trashy  thing  upon  you — your  maid  ought  to  know  better." 

"  I  have  no  maid  ;  papa  says  I  do  not  want  one." 

Miss  Cains  looked  at  her  with  compassion  -and  contempt, 
and  said  emphatically — 

"  You  little  simpleton  !  " 

"  But,  Blanche,  I  can  do  without  one." 

"  Nonsense  !  you  were  not  at  all  well  dressed  in  that  white 
muslin." 

"  Uncle  advised  me  to  wear  something  light  in  texture,"  said 
Sybil. 

"  Oh !  if  he  is  your  authority,  I  am  mute,"  replied  Blanche 
with  mock  gravity. 

"  How  do  you  like  him  ? "  eagerly  asked  Sybil ;  "  is  he 
not  handsome  and  errand  looking?" 

"  And  red-haired,"  interrupted  Blanche.  "  ITe  is  large,  to 
be  sure  ;  and  so  you  think  him  grand — you  silly  little  thing!" 

"Well,  but' how  do  you  like  him,  and  how  do  you  like  my 
father  and  Aunt  Glyn? " 

"  My  dear,"  again  interrupted  her  friend,  "  how  I  like  them 
is  very  little  to  the  purpose — I  have  come  here  resolved  to  like 
them,  and  think  them  delightful,  were  it  only  for  your  sake  ; 
but  how  they  like  me  is  the  question." 

"  Well,  of  course  they  do  like  you,"  stoutly  said  Sybil. 

"  Do  they,  little  goose  ?  I  caught  your  aunt  looking  at  me, 
and  your  father,  and  your  uncle  too,  and  I  can  tell  you  exactly 
what  they  thought  of  your  humble  servant" 

"Don't!"  entreated  Sybil. 

"  Yes,  I  will — the  truth  is  the  truth,  and  you  know  I  am 
not  afraid  of  her.  Your  aunt  looked  at  me,  and  thought,  '  She 
is  very  handsome,  a  great  deal  too  showy  for  Sybil — silly  thing 
to  bring  her  here.'     Your  father  thought,   'A  fine  girl,  but 


Sybil's  second  love.  97 

laro-e — I  like  small  women.'  And  with  this  flattering  comment 
he  dismissed  the  subject  of  Blanche  Cains.     Your  uncle — " 

"  Now,  Blanche,  that  is  unkind,"  interrupted  Sybil,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  true,  and  therefore  cannot  be  unkind ;  but 
give  me  a  kiss,  and  let's  say  no  more  on  that  subject." 

"  I  am  sure  aunt  and  papa  will  both  like  you,  and  uncle 
too,"  persisted  Sybil  fondly. 

Blanche's  blue  eyes  flashed. 

"  Your  uncle,  indeed ! — why,  Sybil,  you  do  not  mean  to 
say  you  have  not  found  him  out  yet,  with  his  red  hair  and  his 
green  eyes,  and  his  singing  !  " 

Sybil  was  so  amazed  at  this  outburst,  and  at  the  tone  in 
which  it  was  uttered,  that  she  remained  dumb.  Blanche 
laughed  a  little  scornfully. 

"  I  tell  you,  child,"  she  said,  "  that  your  uncle  is  a  woman- 
gcorner.  We  are  nothing  in  his  eyes,  my  dear,  but  a  set  of 
pretty  creatures  made  for  Godlike  man's  pleasure  and  amuse- 
ment.    Woe  to  the  woman  that  man  marries  ! " 

"  Oh,  Blanche,  you  are  quite  wrong,  I  assure  you,"  said 
Sybil,  warmly.  "  You  cannot  imagine  how  good  uncle  is — and 
so  kind  to  me,  so  very  kind  ! "  she  added  gratefully. 

"  Oh !  of  course  he  is  kind  to  his  niece,"  carelessly  said 
Blanche. 

"  But  he  is  really  kind,  Blanche,  and  really  fond  of  me." 

"  Nonsense  !  Red-haired  people  are  fond  of  number  one — 
selfishness  is  the  badge  of  the  tribe." 

Sybil  got  a  little  indignant. 

"  He  is  not  so  red  as  all  that,"  she  said,  half  angrily  ;  "  and, 
red  or  not,  he  is  very  handsome — almost  as  handsome  as  my 
father.  It  is  not  merely  that  he  has  good  features,  but  there  is 
something  so  sweet  and  spirited,  and  good  and  manly  in  his 
countenance,  that  it  tells  you  of  a  fine  nature." 

She  spoke  warmly,  and  colored  as  she  spoke.  Blanche 
laughed,  and  drawing  her  on  her  knee,  kissed  her  heartily. 

"You  dear,  good  little  simpleton,"  she  said;  "you  are  a 
simpleton,  but  I  like  you  for  it.  It  is  like  you  to  stand  up  for 
the  absent  friend,  and  defend  him  warmly,  generously.  It  does 
one  good  to  hear  you,  Sybil." 

And  she  kissed  her  again,  and  Sybil,  remembering  how  her 
uncle  and  her  friend  both  praised  and  loved  her  for  the  one 
trait,  felt  puzzled,  and  almost  sad.  There  was  a  vague  revela- 
5 


98  sybil's  second  love. 

tion  to  her  of  a  world  where  there  is  not  much  praise  bestowed 
on  the  absent,  and  where  the  friend  you  profess  to  love  is  too 
often  left  undefended. 

"Yes,"  resumed  Miss  Cains,  "you  are  a  good  little  thing, 
there  is  no  doubt  about  that ;  but  I  must  not  keep  you  up  all 
night,  and  so  good-night,  or  good-morning." 

"  Oh  !  not  yet,"  pleaded  Sybil.  "  I  have  so  many  things  to 
tell  you.  We  are  asked,  once  for  all,  to  Mrs.  Ronald's  parties, 
and  she  gives  one  every  fortnight,  and  so  are  you,  for  I  told  her 
I  expected  a  friend  soon,  and  she  said  my  friend  must  go  with 
me.  And  you  must  help  me  to  break  the  cabal.  Now,  what 
shall  we  wear,  Blanche,  for  I  must  get  a  new  dress  ;  I  tore  this 
in  running  out  to  see  you." 

"I  shall  not  go  to  Mrs.  Ronald's,"  dryly  said  Blanche. 

"  Not  go !  Why  so  ? " 

"  I  have  no  dress  to  wear,  and  do  not  choose  to  buy  one. 
The  plain  truth  is,  I  cannot  afford  it." 

"  But  /  can,"  eagerly  said  Sybil ;  "  my  father  gave  me  three 
hundred  francs  yesterday,  and  I  did  not  spend  it." 

"  You  saved  it  for  me !  "  cried  Blanche,  with  a  sudden  flash 
in  her  blue  eye. 

Sybil  turned  crimson  and  stammered.  Miss  Cains  took  out 
her  purse,  and  put  two  sovereigns  on  Sybil's  table. 

"  You  sent  me  that,  and  I  would  not  affront  you  by  return- 
ing it,"  she  said  quietly  ;  "  for,  of  course,  I  know  how  you 
meant  it ;  but  once  for  all,  Sybil,  I  will  have  no  such  presents." 

"  Then  you  do  not  love  me." 

"  Nonsense ! " 

Tears  stood  in  Sybil's  eyes,  but  Blanche  laughed  and  kissed 
her  and  was  obdurate.  At  length  Sybil's  tears  and  entreaties 
wrung  a  reluctant  compromise  from  her.  Blanche  took  back 
the  money,  and  promised  to  provide  herself  with  a  blue  tarletan 
dress,  and  Sybil  was  to  have  another  like  it,  and  both  dresses 
were  to  be  trimmed  with  white  roses.  It  was  four  before  the 
debate  was  over,  and  Sybil,  having  assured  her  friend  she  had 
better  not  cross  the  landing  for  fear  of  ghosts,  Blanche  laugh- 
ingly consented  to  share  her  bed.  This  little  white  nest  re- 
ceived both  these  fair  birds,  and  a  flounce  kept  them  awake 
till  five  o'clock,  after  which  they  slept. 


sybil's  second  love.  99 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

Late  though  she  fell  asleep,  and  early  though  she  got  up, 
Sybil  was  as  fresh  as  a  rose  the  next  morning.  So  at  least 
thought  Uncle  Edward,  when  he  met  her  crossing  the  cloister. 

"  Whither  so  fast  ? "  he  said,  stopping  her. 

"  I  am  going  for  water-cresses.  Blanche  is  so  fond  of  them, 
and  I  want  to  get  her  some  myself." 

"  Pray,  was  it  the  fair  Blanche  who  kept  you  up  so  late, 
Sybil?" 

"  How  do  you  know  we  stayed  up  late,  uncle  ?" 

"  I  was  in  the  counting-room,  and  saw  the  light  in  your 
window.     I  saw  also  two  shadows  moving  behind  the  curtain." 

"  Yes,  we  had  a  good  deal  to  say.  But  I  am  glad  you  ad- 
mire her,  uncle.     I  knew  you  would." 

"  I  did  not  say  I  admired  her ;  but  I  do  say  she  will  throw 
you  in  the  shade." 

"  Then  she  will  break  up  the  cabal,"  gayly  said  Sybil ;  "  and 
you  will  come  with  us,£o  the  next  part}',  uncle,  and  dance  with 
her.     Now,  confess  she  is  beautiful." 

"  Oh  !  she  is  a  very  fine  young  woman." 

Sybil  longed  to  tell  her  uncle  he  had  but  indifferent  taste ; 
but  she  thought  it  wiser  to  go  back  to  her  entreaty. 

"  Uncle,  you  know  I  want  you  to  dance  with  Blanche." 

"  Do  you,  though  1 — and  suppose  I  decline  going  to  all  par- 
ties ? " 

"  No,  dear  old  uncle,  pray  do  not.  She  is  a  stranger,  you 
know.     Pray  do  promise  to  dance  with  her  ! " 

"  Oh  !  I  shall  require  a  great  deal  more  of  praying  and 
coaxing  than  that  to  make  me  do  it,  I  can  tell  you.  '  Old  un- 
cle, is  any  thing  but  an  inducement,  to  begin  with." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  when  I  say  it." 

"  Just  so  ;  and  do  not  like  your  meaning  at  all.  My  hair 
may  not  be  the  right  color,  but  it  is  not  gray  yet,  Miss  Ken- 
nedy." 

"Your  hair  is  beautiful  hair,"  stoutly  said  Sybil :  "and  you 
will  dance  with  Blanche,  who  will  look  lovely  in  blue." 

"  Oh !  that  is  to  be  the  color,  is  it  ? — and  what  will  you 
wear  ? " 

"  Blue — we  arc  to  be  alike." 

"  Blue  will  not  suit  you,  my  dear." 


100  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Qh  !  yes,  it  will ;  besides,  we  must  be  alike." 

Did  Uncle  Edward  guess  why  Sybil  and  Miss  Cains  should 
be  alike  ?  Perhaps  he  did,  for  he  was  one  whom  few  things 
escaped.  At  all  events,  he  softly  laid  his  hand  on  Sybil's  dark 
hair,  and  looked  down  in  her  face  silently,  but  so  kindly,  that 
Sybil  wondered  in  her  heart  at  Blanche's  unjust  sentence.  He 
a  woman-scorner  ! — he  selfish  and  unkind  ! — Ah  !  no,  surely — 
he  was  good  among  the  good — a  generous  and  noble  man. 

"  Dear,  good  old  Uncle  Edward,"  she  thought,  looking  up 
at  him,  and  that  with  so  expressive  a  countenance  that  it  made 
him  say, 

"  Blue  will  suit  you,  Sybil ;  and  you  need  fear  no  rival  if 
you  will  but  look  so.    And  now  let  us  go  for  the  water-cresses." 

"And  will  you  really  come  with  me?"  joyfully  cried  Sybil 
— how  kind  you  are  !  " 

"  Very  ;  I,  too,  have  a  weakness  for  water-cresses." 

They  left  the  cloister,  crossed  the  lower  garden,  and  went 
up  into  the  grounds  above.  A  little  delving  path  led  them  ere 
long  to  a  green  shady  region  known  as  the  u  Cressoniere."  A 
spring,  which  helped  to  feed  the  river  of  JSaint  Yincent,  flowed 
out  from  beneath  a  dark  rock,  crowned  with  wild  roses  and 
hawthorn,  passed  beneath  a  few  rude  stones  which  spanned  it 
bridgewise,  then  spread  into  a  wide  shallow  pool,  around  which 
grew  a  deep  and  irregular  circle  of  tall  trees.  Verdure,  shade, 
and  sdence  marked  this  quiet  spot.  On  the  surface  of  the  wa- 
ter floated  a  green  field  of  water-cresses,  and  Avhere  the  water 
was  deeper,  and  flowed  over  them,  there  spread  a  mirror  dark 
and  clear,  in  which  the  bending  trees  looked  at  themselves,  and 
where  eveiy  now  and  then  appeared  a  patch  of  blue  sky  gently 
rippling  along  with  the  thin  crystal.  In  the  shade  of  the  trees, 
spreading  through  the  brushwood,  ran  little  rills,  fed  by  the 
central  lake,  and  on  their  banks  more  water-cresses  grew  thick 
and  luxuriant. 

"  I  like  this  place,"  said  Sybil,  sitting  down  on  a  mossy 
bank,  when  her  lap  was  full.  "  You  know  that  papa  is  the 
only  water-cress-grower  in  Saint  Vincent,  and  could  starve  all 
these  girls  who  would  not  let  me  have  a  partner." 

"  But  you  scorn  that  revenge,  Sybil  ?  " 

"  I  do ;  but  I  like  this  place — it  is  so  calm  and  still.  Here 
there  is  no  angry  roaring  of  the  sea,  no  boisterous  wind — 
nothing  but  little  breezes  to  whisper  through  the  trees,  and 
birds  singing  on   their  boughs — and  I  like  these  trees,  uncle. 


sybil's  second  love.  101 

They  stand  in  a  circle  like  sages  in  council,  nodding  their  green 
heads  in  the  sun,  and  not  scorning  the  huinhle  water-cresses  at 
their  feet.  I  shall  bring  Blanche  here,  and  we  shall  sit  and  sew 
together,  and  you  will  come  and  sit  with  us,  uncle." 

"  Will  the  gracious  Blanche  like  it  ?  " 

"Why  should  she  not?  You  must  admire  her,  uncle,  and 
she  must  like  you,  and — " 

Sybil  paused,  not  daring  to  go  on.  Uncle  Edward  was  sit- 
sing  by  her  side ;  he  looked  in  her  face  and  smiled.  i  Sybil 
blushed,  but  said  resolutely  : 

"  Well,  I  do  mean  it.  I  love  you  both,  and  I  do  mean  it. 
Uncle,  she  is  the  dearest  and  the  best  girl  living.  When  I  had 
scarlatina  at  school,  she  nursed  me  like  a  sister  of  mercy.  I 
never  can  forget  that — never  !  " 

"  This  is  the  merest  nonsense,"  said  Uncle  Edward,  shaking 
his  heavy  hair  a  little  impatiently — "  here  am  I  idling  away  my 
morning  hours  gathering  water-cresses,  and  listening  to  Miss 
Cains' s  praises.  I  wonder  what  brought  and  what  keeps  me  here, 
you  little  witch  ?  But  there  is  a  curious  spell  about  you — no 
one  can  deny  that.  You  are  quite  capable  of  making  me  marry 
that  friend  of  yours,  whether  I  like  it  or  not.  Ay !  and  capable, 
too,  of  what  would  probably  be  much  harder — of  making  her 
admire  me.*' 

Sybil's  eyes  sparkled,  and  she  clapped  her  hands. 

"Oh !  how  I  should  like  it !  "  she  cried. 

"  And  it  will  actually  soon  be  breakfast -time,"  he  inter- 
rupted, rising ;  "  and  I  have  business  at  the  mill,  and  the  royal 
Blanche  will  waken  and  wonder  where  her  maid-of-honor  is  all 
this  time." 

"  So  she  will,"  cried  Sybil,  starting  up.  "  Good-morning, 
uncle." 

She  gave  him  a  nod,  and  darted  away.  As  she  was  hurrying 
through  the  cloister,  Miss  Glyn's  voice,  issuing  from  the  open 
library  window,  summoned  her  within.  Sybil  obeyed  the  call, 
and  dutifully  bade  her  aunt  good-morning. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  frigidly  asked  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Gathering  water-cresses  for  breakfast." 

"What  was  that  gentleman  saying  to  you  a  while  ago  in  the 
cloister  ? " 

"I  suppose  you  mean  uncle,  aunt.  Well,  we  were  talking 
about  Mrs.  Ronald's  party,  and  I  was  telling  uncle  that  Blanche 
and  I  are  to  wear  blue ;  he  thinks  blue  will  not  suit  me,  but  I 
am  sure  it  will." 


102  sybil's  second  love. 

Miss  Glyn  looted  very  indignant  "  That  impostor "  to 
talk  to  her  uiece  on  a  matter  of  dress,  and  the  color  that  would 
suit,  or  the  color  that  -would  not  suit  her  ?  And  her  foolish 
niece  to  be  wearing  blue,  which  would  make  her  look  hard  and 
common,  just  because  blue  suited  that  upstart,  Miss  Cains ! — it 
was  all  exasperating. 

"  Sybil,  you  are  a  fool !  "  she  said,  with  so  much  bitterness, 
that  Sybil  looked  and  felt  dismayed. 

"I  am  amazed  at  your  talking  to  that  gentleman  about  what 
you  are  to  wear,  and  your  wearing  blue,  which  does  not,  and 
never  did,  suit  you,  is  the  most  absurd  thing  I  ever  heard  of. 
Pray,"  she  added,  with  considerable  asperity,  "  what  made  you 
bring  Miss  Cains  here,  and  what  makes  you  take  her  to  Mrs. 
Ronald's  party  ?  Miss  Cains  is  a  great  deal  more  effective  than 
you  are,  and  will  throw  you  in  the  shade  ;  and  it  will  do  her  no 
sort  of  good,  whilst  it  will  do  you  considerable  harm.  I  wish  to 
see  you  admired,  and  I  do  not  see  the  necessity  of  providing 
yourself  with  a  rival.  I  repeat  it,  it  will  do  Miss  Cains  no  sort 
of  good,  and  it  will  injure  you." 

These  remarks  were  probably  dictated  by  the  kindest  mo- 
tives, but  Sybil  took  them  very  ill.  She  became  crimson,  and 
looked  so  hot  and  indignant,  that  her  father,  who  saw  her 
through  the  door  she  had  left  open,  entered  the  room  to  ask, 
"  What  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  The  matter  is  this,"  replied  Sybil,  vehemently,  "  that  aunt 
blames  me  for  having  brought  poor  dear  Blanche  here.  She 
says  she  will  take  all  my  admirers  away,  and  she  scolds  me  for 
wearing  blue,  and  for  telling  uncle  about  it." 

Now,  if  Miss  Glyn's  remarks  had  displeased  Sybil,  they 
thoroughly  offended  Sybil's  father. 

"  My  dear  Mary,"  he  said,  "how  can  you  put  such  ideas  into 
the  girl's  head  ?  The  idea  of  that  Miss  Cains,  who  has  not  a 
penny,  robbing  Sybil  of  her  admirers,  is  ridiculous.  Nor  can  I 
imagine  that,  were  their  fortunes  equal,  my  little  Sybil  need 
care  a  pin.  Surely  no  one  would  think  of  preferring  to  her  that 
big,  fair,  fat,  girl — " 

"  Oh,  but  she  is  lovely,"  interrupted  Sybil,  little  pleased  to 
be  so  defended. 

"  My  dear,  our  tastes  differ.  I  do  not  admire  her.  She  is 
a  fine  woman,  and  she  has  splendid  teeth,  and  laughs  a  good  deal 
to  show  them.  There — there,  I  will  say  no  more,  but  I  repeat 
it,  the  idea  of  rivalry  between  you  is  absurd.     As  to  blue,  wear 


Sybil's  second  love.  103 

it  if  you  like  ;  and,"  lie  added,  turning  once  more  to  Miss  Glyn, 
"  if  Sybil  does  consult  her  uncle  on  a  question  of  dress,  you  need 
not  wonder,  Mary  ;  it  was  I  who  referred  her  to  bim  whilst  you 
were  away." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  lecture  you  have  read 
me,"  said  Miss  Glyn  rising;  "and  I  do  admire,  James,  the 
teaching  you  give  your  child.  If  she  does  not  become  the 
vainest  girl  in  Ireland,  it  will  be  no  fault  of  yours.  I  tell  her 
what  I  think,  that  Miss  Cains,  who  is  much  handsomer  than  she 
is,  can  eclipse  her ;  and  that  this  Miss  Cains,  whom  I  suspect  to  be 
both  false  and  artful,  will  do  so,  I  have  no  doubt ;  but  I  wash  my 
hands  of  this  once  for  all,  and  Sybil  may  wear  black  or  yellow, 
or  a  Scotch  plaid,  if  she  pleases,  and  get  any  gentleman  to  fix 
the  height  of  her  flounces,  for  all  I  shall  care  or  meddle,  from 
this  day  forth." 

With  this  dignified  speech,  by  which  she  meant  to  cut  up 
both  father  and  daughter,  Miss  Glyn  rose,  and  deliberately  left 
the  room. 

Mr.  Kennedy  laughed  gayly,  but  Sybil  looked  ready  to 
cry. 

"  Never  mind,  Pussy,"  he  said.  "  I  know  what  you  feel 
most  is  the  '  false  and  artful.'  But  never  mind  ;  here  is  more 
money  to  get  you  a  blue  dress,  since  blue  it  must  be  ;  and  you 
will  be  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room,  whatever  you  wear." 

AYith  this  kind  speech,  and  a  kiss  and  some  gold  pieces,  Mr. 
Kennedy  left  his  daughter ;  but  Sybil's  heart  was  sore.  Blanche 
had  begun  the  work,  and  every  one  seemed  bent  on  completing 
it.  These  four  people  were  all  engaged  in  fault-finding,  suspect- 
ing, and  sneering  at  each  other.  It  was  dreadful,  and  very  tire- 
some. Oh  !  if  her  uncle  would  only  not  be  giving  his  indirect 
hits  at  dear  Blanche — if  dear  Blanche  would  only  spare  him,  and 
not  call  him  red-haired,  and  a  woman-scorner — if  aunt  would 
not  attribute  such  bad  designs  to  her  dear  friend — and  if  her 
good  kind  father  would  only  not  call  Blanche  a  big,  fat,  fair  girl, 
and  accuse  her  of  showing  her  teeth  !  Oh,  why  would  they  not 
all  love  and  admire  Blanche,  and  why  would  not  Blanche  believe 
in  their  love  and  admiration  ?  It  was  hard,  and  so  cruel ! 
Moreover,  all  little  Sybil's  match-making  plans  were  sadly  down. 
She  was  afraid,  she  was,  her  uncle  and  her  friend  would  never 
fall  in  love  with  each  other. 

She  was  quite  pensive  when  she  went  in  search  of  Denise  to 
give  her  the  water-cresses.     She  found  her  in  the  kitchen-garden 


104  sybil's  second  loye. 

with  Narcisse — Denise  standing  lingering  to  her  heart's  delight, 
and  Narcisse  talking  with  mysterious  emphasis. 

"I  told  him  to  be  off  with  himself,"  said  Narcisse,  loftily. 
"  I  told  him  he  was  an  oyster." 

Denise  looked  dismayed. 

"  You  should  not,"  she  said.      "  You  should  not,  Narcisse." 

"  But  he  is  an  oyster,"  persisted  Narcisse.  "  Why  did  he 
not  go  for  the  surgeon  at  once  ? " 

On  hearing  the  word  surgeon,  Sybil  inquired  if  there  had 
been  an  accident. 

"  There  has,"  emphatically  said  Narcisse ;  "  and  instead  of 
going  for  a  surgeon,  they  bound  up  his  wrist." 

"  Whose  wrist,  Narcisse  ? " 

"Monsieur  de  Renneville's;  he  sprained  Ids' wrist  as  he  was 
going  to  Madame  Ronald's  party,  and  his  man-servant  bound  it 
up,  instead  of  going  for  a  surgeon." 

"  And  did  he  go  to  the  party  ? "  ashed  Sybil,  turning  crimson. 

Narcisse,  who  was  more  emphatic  than  polite,  asked  how 
Monsieur  de  Renneville  could  go  to  the  party  with  his  wrist 
bound  up ;  and  by  the  tone  in  which  he  put  the  question,  he 
evidently  thought  Sybil  an  oyster  for  the  time  being.  But 
Sybil  did  not  heed  him  ;  she  walked  away  strangely  fluttered. 
She  saw  it  all  now.  It  was  Monsieur  de  Renneville  who  had 
called  on  Madame  de  Lonville,  and  given  that  lady  the  warning 
she  had  conveyed  to  Sybil.  She  forgot  the  errand  that  brought 
her  to  the  kitchen-garden,  and  Blanche  and  the  water-cresses, 
and  she  only  thought  "  How  kind  !  "  A  little  smart  tap  on  her 
shoulder  roused  her  from  this  fit  of  abstraction.  She  turned 
round,  and  saw  Blanche  Cains  smiling  at  her. 

"  Well,  Penserosa,"she  said  gayly,  "  what  musing  fit  is  on 
you  now  ? — Mr.  Smith,  eh  ? " 

"  No,  no,  indeed — not  Mr.  Smith." 

"By  the  way,  what  of  him?  When  is  he  going  to  turn  up 
again?  I  feel  quite  inquisitive  about  him,  and  especially  desir- 
ous of  seeing  him,  and  of  hearing  that  non-aspirate  and  too  aspi- 
rate II,  which  roused  your  ire." 

"  I  hear  nothing  about  him  now." 

"  Was  it  about  him  your  uncle  went  away  ? " 

"  Uncle  did  not  tell  me  what  he  went  away  for." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  went  away  at  all  ?  My  belief  is  that  he 
and  Mr.  Smith  were  locked  up  all  the  time  in  some  garret  of 
this  old  nunnery,  and  had  it  out  between  them." 


sybil's  second  love.  105 

Miss  Cains  spoke  very  deliberately,  and  again  with  that  dis- 
like of  Uncle  Edward  which  Sybil  had  noticed  the  night  before. 
"  I  suppose  I  must  give  up  all  thought  of  their  marrying,"  she 
thought  with  a  sigh,  which  did  not  escape  the  quick  car  of 
Blanche  Cains. 

"  For  whom  is  that  ? "  she  asked  ;  "  for  Greeneyes  or  for  Mr. 
Smith?" 

"  For  neither.     One  I  love,  the  other  I  detest !  " 

"  Yes ;  but  which  ? " 

"  You  know,  Blanche." 

"  I  know  I  am  dying  to  hear  something  about  Mr.  Smith, 
and  can  get  nothing  out  of  you." 

Something  did  rise  to  Sybil's  lips,  for  she  remembered  the 
letter  she  had  half-read,  hut  she  remembered  too  that  her  uncle 
had  bid  her  keep  a  seal  upon  her  lips,  and  she  only  laughed  and 
shook  her  head. 

"  Now,  my  dear,  I  give  you  fair  warning,"  said  Blanche 
Cains,  solemnly  ;  "  I  am  here  in  clover,  pretty  much  as  Eve  was 
in  Paradise,  for  Miss  Blunt  has  given  me  unlimited  leave  of  ab- 
sence, and  I  must  complete  the  likeness  by  being  up  to  mischief. 
The  tree  of  knowledge  is  here,  with  a  secret,  the  forbidden  fruit 
growing  upon  it,  and  that  tempting  serpent  we  all  carry  within 
us  declares  it  is  delicious.  Therefore,  as  I  said,  I  give  you  fair 
warning.  I  shall  pump  your  servants,  and  ferret  over  the  house, 
and  hunt  up  evidence,  till  I  know  all  about  Mr.  Smith." 

"  And  then  you  will  share  the  apple  with  me  and  tell  me  ? " 

"No,"  resolutely  said  Miss  Cains;  "Adam  was  a  sneak, 
who  threw  all  the  blame  on  poor  Eve.  She  should  have  sinned 
alone,  and  left  him  in  Paradise ;  and,  manlike,  he  would  have 
forgotten  her  for  another  Eve." 

"Miss  Cains  spoke  with  some  bitterness.      Sybil  looked  at 
her  earnestly. 

"  You  have  had  some  trouble,  Blanche,"  she  said. 

"You  think  my  Adam  has  forsaken  me,  do  you?  My  (bar, 
I  have  none,  and  never  had  any.  I  have  told  you  so  again  and 
again.  I  am  twenty-five,  as  poor  as  Job,  and  I  look  expensive  ; 
no  man  has  yet  been  found  daring  enough  to  undertake  inc. 
And  after  all  I  cannot  blame  them,"  candidly  said  Miss  Cains. 
"  I  would  not  marry  a  poor  man." 
"  Blanche  !  if  you  liked  him  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  would  not  like  him.     Remember,  you  have  the 
theory  of  poverty,  and  I  have  the  bitter  practice.     It  is  cruel,  it 
5* 


10(3  sybil's  second  love. 

is  selfish  in  a  poor  girl  to  marry  a  poor  man.  It  is  dragging 
him  down  to  life-long  sorrow.  But,  oh !  you  lucky  little  girl, 
what  a  place  is  this  Saint  Vincent !  What  fruit  you  must  have 
here,  and  flowers,  and  vegetables,  and  poultry — a  very  land  of 
Goshen ! " 

"You  are  fond  of  cauliflowers,  I  know,"  said  Sybil,  eagerly. 

"  My  dear,  I  adore  them ;  and  peas,  and  salad,  and  a  young- 
chicken,  and  a  dish  of  strawberries  and  cream." 

"  Peas  are  not  in,"  said  Sybil,  with  a  sigh  ;  "  but  we  have 
plenty  of  other  good  things.  Come  and  take  what  you  like  for 
dinner." 

Miss  Cains  was  quite  willing,  and  made  a  most  liberal  and 
judicious  selection.  When  it  was  over  she  said  again  that  Saint 
Vincent  was  a  land  of  Goshen  ;  and  Sybil,  giving  her  a  fond 
kiss,  wished  ardently  they  could  live  and  die  together  in  Saint 
Vincent. 


— +*+- 


CHAPTER    XV. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  declare  that  we  will  meddle  no  more 
in  this  matter,  that  we  have  had  enough  of  it,  that  we  wash  our 
hands  of  it  henceforth,  etc.,  the  difficulty  is  to  keep  to  such  a 
resolve,  and  so  Miss  Glyn  soon  found.  The  free-and-easy  foot- 
ing on  which  Miss  Cains  established  herself  at  Saint  Vincent 
exasperated  her;  the  doubtful  relationship  of  Uncle  Edward 
was  to  her  the  very  height  of  iniquity ;  and  Mr.  Kennedy's  cool 
assumption  of  undivided  authority  in  his  own  house,  and  in  his 
own  concerns,  provoked  her  the  more,  that  she  knew  not  how 
to  resent  it.  For  all  that,  it  only  required  so  trifling  a  thing  as 
an  interview  with  Madame  dc  Lonville  to  upset  all  Miss  Glyn's 
dignified  resolves. 

Mrs.  Ronald  was  an  old  friend  of  Miss  Glyn's,  and  at  this 
lady's  house  she  and  Madame  de  Lonville  had  become  acquainted 
within  the  last  few  days.  But  the  acquaintance  was  a  brief  one 
at  the  best.  Miss  Glyn  had  not  asked  Madame  de  Lonville  to 
call  upon  her,  and  unmitigated  surprise  appeared  in  her  counte- 
nance as  Denise  announced  this  unexpected  visitor.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  Miss  Glyn  wTas  alone,  for  the  two  friends  were  in  the 
garden,  so  she  requested  Denise  to  show  the  lady  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, to  which   she  forthwith  repaired,  infusing  a   double 


Sybil's  second  love.  107 

amount  of  statelincss  in  her  manner.  On  seeing  her  enter, 
Madame  de  Lonville  rose  and  came  forward.  A  stout,  round- 
faced  lady,  with  a  childish  smile  and  a  keen  green  eye,  was  Ma- 
dame de  Lonville.  She  waddled  up  to  Miss  Glyn,  and  was  con- 
siderably out  of  breath  by  the  time  she  reached  that  lady. 

"  Do  not  mind  it,"  she  said,  as  if  deprecating  Miss  Glyn's 
interference  with  her  breathless  condition  ;  "  I  am  used  to  it." 

She  dropped  down  in  a  chair  as  she  spoke,  and  smiled  her 
vacant  childish  smile  up  in  Miss  Glyn's  face. 

"  Now,  you  know  I  have  not  come  to  see  you,"  she  said, 
with  engaging  candor ;  "  I  come  upon  business." 

This  intimation  caused  Miss  Glyn  no  surprise.  She  knew 
through  Mrs.  Ronald  that  Madame  de  Lonville's  finger  was  ever 
in  some  pie  or  other.  She  had  either  tickets  for  a  charitable 
lottery  to  dispose  of,  or  subscriptions  for  some  excellent  pur- 
pose to  collect,  or  some  first-rate  bargain  to  propose  to  the  large 
circle  of  her  friends.  Some  anonymous  lady  had  a  diamond 
ring  too  many,  or  some  unknown  gentleman  a  capital  cask  of 
wine  to  part  with,  or  even  some  mysterious  friend  of  the  needy 
was  willing  to  lend  some  thousand  francs  at  so  much  per  cent, 
on  good  security. 

"  Yes,  I  come  upon  business,"  repeated  Madame  de  Lonville  ; 
"  and  what  do  you  think  that  business  is  ? "  Without  waiting 
for  Miss  Glyn's  reply,  she  sank  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  and 
speaking  behind  her  hand,  she  added,  "  Matrimonial." 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  when  she  called  on  Mrs.  Ronald, 
Miss  Glyn  had  informed  that  lady  she  wished  to  see  Sybil 
speedily  and  well  married  before  she  left  Saint  Vincent,  for  she 
feelingly  added,  "  I  cannot  trust  the  child  to  her  father,  you 
know." 

Madame  de  Lonville  was  present  when  the  remark  was  ut- 
tered, and  treasured  it  up.  For  she  sometimes  indulged  in  the 
matrimonial  pie.  She  was  ever  ready,  good  soul,  to  help  and 
unite  any  fond  pair  in  the  holy  bonds  of  wedlock.  In  Eng- 
land, the  girl  who  wants  to  marry,  hunts  for  herself;  or  the  man 
wTho  wants  a  Avife,  casts  his  eye  about  him,  and,  sultan-like, 
picks  out  the  one  that  suits  him,  thinks  over  it,  and  finally  tells 
her  his  mind.  In  France,  matters  are  rarely  managed  so.  The 
points  of  marriageable  young  ladies  arc  well  known  to  their 
friends,  and  frequently  discussed  in  society.  So  much  money 
down,  so  much  more  coming  in,  blue  eyes,  dark  hair,  a  sweet 
temper,  accomplishments,  etc.,  etc.     On  this  nomenclature,  sin- 


108  sybil's  second  love. 

gle  gentlemen,  of  whom  a  similar  account  is  kept  and  giren, 
keep  themselves  ready  to  fall  in  love,  get  introduced  to  the  fair 
damsel,  and  from  that  first  interview  hoth  parties  judge  how  far 
it  is  advisable  to  meet  again.  It  is  a  foimidable  ordeal  that 
first  interview  ;  love  sometimes  springs  from  it,  and  often  dislike, 
disgust,  and  aversion.  Then  are  flattering  descriptions  tested, 
and  blue  eyes,  dark  hair,  and  gentlemanlike  manners  are  held 
at  their  true  worth.  Little  thanks  do  the  De  Lonville  sisterhood 
often  get  for  their  pains — but  they  are  not  disheartened ;  the 
wish  of  promoting  the  happiness  of  their  species,  the  hope  of 
more  substantial  rewards,  sustain  them  ;  but  that  is  nothing  to 
our  present  purpose. 

"  Now  let  us  be  open,"  engagingly  said  Madame  de  Lon- 
ville— "  I  am  quite  open,  as  you  see.  You  have  got  a  charming 
niece,  whom  you  wish  to  see  well  and  happily  married." 

"  What  do  you  call  well  and  happily  married  ? "  slowly 
asked  Miss  Glyn. 

"  I  call  a  girl  well  and  happily  married  who  gets  a  hand- 
some, brave,  and  spirited,  and  yet  most  moral  and  exemplary 
nobleman." 

"  Poor  ?  "  dryly  said  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Well,  not  rich,  of  course,"  replied  Madame  de  Lonville ; 
"  when  they  are  rich,  they  do  not  go  seeking  for  wives,  poor 
dears  ! — they' have  to  run  away  from  them." 

Migs  Glyn  seemed  to  muse.     At  length  she  spoke : 

"  I  certainly  do  wish  to  see  my  niece  well  and  happily  mar- 
ried," she  said,  gravely  ;  but  I  must  know  more  of  the  young 
man  before  I  give  you  even  a  doubtful  answer." 

"  Dear  me  ! — I  came  for  that,"  said  Madame  de  Lonville, 
with  a  sudden  lighting  up  of  her  keen  green  eye.  "  I  heard 
you  speak  on  that  subject  at  Mrs.  Ronald's,  so  I  came  for 
that.     Perhaps  you  would  rather  question  me — I  shall  answer." 

"  Then  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  his  name." 

"  Why,  no,  you  see,  I  cannot  do  that  just  yet.  You  are  so 
very  much  on  your  guard  that  I  must  not  be  too  open.  But  it 
is  a  good  name,  and  he  is  a  count — a  real  count  of  the  old  no- 
blesse. You  would  like  to  see  your  dear  little  niece  a  count- 
ess ? "  she  coaxingly  added. 

Miss  Glyn's  only  reply  was  to  put  another  question. 

"  How  old  is  he  ? " 

"  Thirty,  but  does  not  look  more  than  twenty-live,"  glibly 
replied  Madame  de  Lonville. 


sybil's  second  love.  109 

"  He  is  too  old  for  Sybil,  then — a  great  deal  too  old." 

"  Excuse  me,  I  think  his  being  thirty  such  an  advantage  ! 
lie  has  sown  all  his  wild  oats,  as  your  friend  Mrs.  Eonald  would 
say." 

Miss  Glyn  was  any  thing  but  pleased  with  this  remark  ;  her 
brown  eyes  flashed,  and  she  drew  up  her  spare  figure  with  con- 
siderable dignity. 

"  Madame,"  she  said,  gravely,  "  I  disapprove  of  a  man  hav- 
ing any  wild  oats  to  sow." 

"  Ah  !  "  sighed  Madame  de  Lonville,  "  so  do  I,  Miss  Glyn  ; 
but  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  when  it  comes  after  marriage,  as  it  did 
with  me,  Miss  Glyn.  It  half  killed  me — I  never  got  back  my 
breath." 

"And  that  count,  whoever  he  may  be,"  continued  Miss 
Glyn,  "  is  too  old,  and  not  moral  enough  for  my  niece." 

"  Dear  me  ! — I  have  not  spoken  against  his  morality,  have 
I  ? "  cried  Madame  de  Lonville ;  "  he  is  a  most  exemplary 
young  man,  lives  with  his  mother  in  an  old  chateau,  has  a  little 
shooting  now  and  then,-  never  touches  a  card,  never  swears, 
goes  to  church  twice  every  Sunday,  his  mother  is  a  saint — in 
short,  he  is  a  most  pious,  well-conducted  young  nobleman." 

"  You  spoke  of  his  wild  oats  ? "  said  Miss  Glyn,  still  suspi- 
cious. 

"  My  dear  madame,  I  spoke  of  his  being  thirty — as  to  his 
wild  oats,  I  do  not  know — on  my  word,  I  do  not  know  that  he 
ever  had  any." 

She  spoke  so  emphatically,  that  Miss  Glyn  was  pacified,  and 
the  cross-examination  was  resumed.  After  the  years  of  the 
anonymous  count  came  his  looks.  He  proved  to  be  tall,  gen- 
tlemanlike, and  fair.  It  also  appeared  that  he  wore  whiskers, 
and  was  adorned  with  a  mustache — that  he  had  blue  eyes,  a 
straight  nose,  and  very  good  teeth.  Then  his  accomplishments 
were  discussed.  He  was  a  good  linguist,  said  Madame  de  Lon- 
ville, and  played  on  the  fiddle.  Then  he  had  the  sweetest  tem- 
per, and  the  noblest  heart — in  short,  so  good  a  young  man  had 
never  made  a  happy  girl  a  countess  since  counts  began  and 
marriage-knots  were  tied. 

"  Has  he  good  health  ?"  asked  Miss  Glyn—"  tall  and  fair,  I 
suspect  he  is  consumptive,  Madame  de  Lonville." 

"  Consumptive  ! "  almost  screamed  Madame  de  Lonville — 
"  I  do  not  know  such  lungs  as  he  has.  Every  one  of  the  Ren- 
nevilles — there,  the  name  lias  slipped  out ! — dies  of  old  age — 


110  sybil's  second  love. 

mere  old  age.     There  is  neither  gout,  nor  asthma,  nor  livei 
complaint,  nor  rheumatism,  in  the  whole  generation." 

"  But  he  is  poor,"  said  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Why,  yes,  he  is." 

"  Very  poor." 

"  My  dear  madame,  I  will  be  quite  open  with  you.  I  be- 
lieve he  has  something  like  four  thousand  francs  a  year." 

"A  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  English — and  pray  tew 
much  would  he  expect  ? " 

"  Why,  something  like  two  hundred  thousand  francs  down, 
and  as  much  later." 

"  That  is  to  say,  sixteen  thousand  pounds  English — a  cool 
gentleman.     No,  no,  that  will  never  do." 

"  Madame  de  Lonville  looked  disconcerted  and  disappointed. 
What  a  pity  to  throw  away  such  an  opportunity,  it  might  never 
come  back,  you  know ;  a  real  count — and  surely  Mademoiselle 
Kennedy  had  or  would  have  the  money." 

"  My  niece  has  more,  and  will  have  more,"  said  Miss  Glyn 
with  some  pride,  "  but  Count  Andre  de  Rcnneville — I  have 
heard  the  name  before — is  too  poor  for  her." 

"  He  has  an  uncle,"  reluctantly  said  Madame  de  Lonville, 
"  who  might  leave  him  something." 

"  But  he  also  has  a  mother,  who  would  expect  to  live  with 
him,  and  I  caunot  allow  that." 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  his  mother  is  to 
stay  in  the  chateau." 

"  And  where,  then,  is  he  to  live  ? "  sharply  asked  Miss 
Glyn. 

*  "  With  his  wife." 

"And  on  his  wife.  No,  madame,  that  will  not  do.  My 
niece's  money  shall  not  help  to  keep  a  count  in  idleness.  Idle 
husbands  are  bad  husbands,  and  I  wish  her  to  be  a  happy 
woman.    That  is  of  far  more  importance  than  being  a  countess." 

"  But  why  should  she  not  be  a  happy  countess  ? "  persisted 
Madame  de  Lonville — "  why  should  he  live  upon  his  wife  and 
be  idle  ?  He  would  like  a  busy  life  of  all  things,  if  he  had  but 
capital  to  start  with." 

Now  capital  was  one  of  Miss  Glyn's  hobbies.  She  was  sure 
that  with  capital  you  could  do  any  thing  She  had  capital,  but 
she  was  a  woman  ;  a  vision  of  a  docile  nephew,  who  would 
adopt  and  work  on  her  ideas,  dawned  before  her,  and  softened 
her  so  far  that  she  said  "she  would  see  this  young  man." 


sybil's  second  love.  Ill 

"  And  if  you  will  speak  to  Mr.  Kennedy — " 
"  There  is  no  need  to  do  that ;  I  must  be  satisfied  first," 
interrupted  Miss  Glyn.      "  Later,"   she    added  with   a  certain 
condescension  of  manner,  "  will  do  for  Mr.  Kennedy.     In  the 
mean  while,  I  must  see  this  young  man." 

Madame  de  Lonville  wagged  her  fat  head  with  a  roguish 
look. 

"  He  is  to  be  at  Mrs.  Eonald's  ball,"  she  whispered. 
And  thus  came  to  naught  Miss  Glyn's  stern  resolve  of  wash- 
ing her  hands  of  Mr  Kennedy's  daughter,  and  letting  Sybil  wear 
a  plaid  dress  if  she  pleased.  Indeed,  so  far  was  she  from  such 
philosophic  indifference,  that  her  very  first  act,  after  Madame 
de  Lonville  had  left  her,  was  to  order  the  carriage  and  drive  oft' 
to  Saint  Vincent,  for  the  express  purpose  of  questioning  Mrs. 
Ronald.  She  found  her  surrounded  by  visitors,  whom  she  he- 
roically sat  out. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  stayed,"  eagerly  said  Mrs.  Ronald,  as 
soon  as  they  were  alone.     "  I  have  found  the  very  husband  you 
want  for  Sybil." 
"Indeed!" 

"  Yes.  A  most  delightful  young  man  ;  a  count,  too,  of  an- 
cient family." 

"  Count  Andre  de  Renneville  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Glyn. 
"  Why,  how  could  you  guess  ?  " 

"  Madame  de  Lonville  has  just  called  and  proposed  the 
match  to  me." 

Mrs.  Ronald  was  silent  awhile,  then  she  said  with  much 
feeling, 

"  I  cannot  do  without  Madame  de  Lonville,  or  rather  I  dare 
not  offend  her,  and  she  presumes  upon  it.  But  really  it  is  too 
bad  for  her  to  go  and  forestall  me  in  this  case.  I  am  quite 
hurt,  I  am,  Miss  Glyn." 

Miss  Glyn  listened  to  her  lament  with  great  composure  ; 
then,  when  she  ceased,  inquired  into  Count  Andre  de  Renne- 
villc's  character  and  circumstances.  Mrs.  Ronald's  account 
tallied  so  completely  with  Madame  de  Lonville's — it  would  have 
lessened  Miss  Glyn's  satisfaction  had  she  known  that  Madame  de 
Lonville  was  Mrs.  Ronald's  authority — that  she  went  home  in 
high  spirits. 

But  Miss  Glyn  was  eminently  a  prudent  person.  She  now 
determined  in  her  own  mind  that  she  would  see  this  young  man, 
weigh  him  well,  turn  him  over,  ascertain  how  far  he  would  be 


112  Sybil's  second  love. 

equal  to  the  management  of  capital,  then  speak  to  her  brother- 
in-law,  and  propose  that  he  should  give  him  Sybil,  and  take  him 
into  partnership.  These  preliminaries  being  settled,  Sybil  would 
be  consulted.  Now  it  so  happened  that  this  wise  and  prudent 
course  had  to  be  reversed.  Madame  de  Lonville  called  the 
next  day  with  the  information  that  Count  Andre  de  Renneville 
was  on  the  eve  of  a  matrimonial  expedition  to  Paris,  and  that 
unless  he  received  some  definite  encouragement,  he  could  not 
afford  Miss  Glyn  more  than  one  interview.  He  asked  for 
nothing  like  a  promise ;  but  he  must  feel  that  he  was  not  wholly 
unacceptable  to  the  young  lady,  not  liable,  in  short,  to  be  re- 
jected at  the  eleventh  hour  by  that  potentate  from  whose  deci- 
sions there  was  no  appeal,  Sybil's  heart,  or  he  would  excuse 
himself  from  going  to  Mrs.  Ronald's  party,  and  proceed  to  Paris 
at  once.  Miss  Glyn  sharply  asked  how  this  prudent  gentleman 
could  know  that  Sybil  would  suit  him  ;  but  with  a  knowing  wag 
Madame  de  Lonville  replied  that  there  was  no  doubt  on  that 
head.  The  Count  had  seen  Miss  Kennedy,  and  was  fascinated 
by  her  grace  and  beauty.  Miss  Glyn  said  she  must  take  time 
to  consider  so  weighty  a  matter ;  but  promised  to  give  Madame 
de  Lonville  a  definite  answer  before  the  day  of  the  party. 

Severe  were  Miss  Glyn's  mental  struggles  before  her  mind 
was  finally  made  up.  At  length  she  yielded  to  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances, and  sent  Madame  de  Lonville  the  promised  token. 
But  she  so  far  adhered  to  her  original  plan,  that  she  did  not 
open  her  lips  to  Mr.  Kennedy  on  the  subject,  and  resolved  not  to 
speak  to  Sybil  herself,  until  she  had  come  to  some  sort  of  opin- 
ion concerning  Count  de  Renneville.  This  she  would  do  on  the 
evening  of  the  party  ;  if  her  opinion  was  favorable,  she  would 
let  Sybil  into  the  secret;  if,  on  the  contrary,  it  was  not  so,  she 
would  be  silent,  and  plainly  tell  Madame  de  Lonville  that  the 
young  man  would  never  do  for  her  niece. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Little  did  Sybil  suspect  her  aunt's  intended  kindness.  She 
now  and  then  wondered,  indeed,  if  she  should  see  Count  Andre 
de  Renneville  at  Mrs.  Ronald's;  and  now  and  then,  too,  she  gave 
the  gray  towers  of  Raymond's  manor  a  pensive  look  ;  but  these 


sybil's  second  lote.  113 

were  only  passing  clouds  across  the  summer  sky  of  her  thoughts. 
Sybil  had  cared  too  little  about  herself,  as  yet,  to  think  much  of 
such  matters.  She  was  also  greatly  wrapt  up  just  then  in  the 
concerns  of  a  poor  woman,  the  tenant  of  a  wretched  hovel  on 
Mr.  Kennedy's  land.  This  cabin,  mere  mud,  with  a  thatched 
roof,  he  wished  to  pull  down ;  he  offered  his  tenant  a  better 
home  for  the  same  money,  but  Jeanne  had  lived  and  grown  old 
in  this  miserable  abode,  and  she  loved  it  with  the  blind  passion- 
ate love  of  a  wild  thino-  for  its  lair.  Arguments  availed  not,  she 
moaned  and  lamented,  till  Sybil,  moved  to  pity,  pleaded  her 
cause,  and  finally  won  it  by  sheer  importunity. 

"  You  are  a  little  simpleton,  Pussy,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy ; 
"  the  woman  will  die  of  rheumatism  there ;  but  have  your  way 
both  of  you — you  may  go  and  tell  her  that  she  can  stay  in  her 
mud  castle  as  long  as  she  pleases." 

This  was  an  errand  after  Sybil's  own  heart,  and  she  ran  and 
told  Blanche  "  her  luck,"  as  she  called  it,  and  it  was  agreed 
they  would  both  go  and  convey  the  joyful  tidings  to  the  widow. 
But  a  violent  headache  would  not  allow  Miss  Cains  to  fulfil  her 
part  of  the  contract.  She  said  it  would  be  better  as  the  day 
wore  on,  and  spent  the  morning  in  her  room  ;  but  when  Sybil 
sought  her  again,  and  fondlv  asked  : 

"  How  is  your  headache,  darling  ?  " 

Though  Blanche  Cains  raised  her  head,  and  answered 
"  Better,"  her  looks  belied  her  words. 

"  Xo,  no,  it  is  not  better,"  said  Sybil,  full  of  concern,  "  and 
you  must  not  come  out  in  this  hot  sun.     I  will  not  let  you." 

"  Oh  !  pray  do,"  urged  Blanche — "  I  do  feel  as  if  the  air 
would  do  me  good." 

"  It  is  not  air  is  out  now,  but  heat.  You  must  stay  within  ; 
I  shall  come  back  all  the  sooner  if  I  go  alone." 

Blanche  smiled  and  vielded,  but  she  asked  which  road  Sybil 
would  take,  that  she  might  go  and  meet  her. 

'*'  I  shall  come  back  by  the  Pines,"  said  Sybil.  "  Shall  I  sit 
and  wait  for  vou  there  ? " 

"  Do  ;  I  dearly  like  that  spot." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  said  Sybil,  her  eyes  sparkling.  "  I  cannot 
tell  you  what  I  feel,  Blanche,  when  I  sit  beneath  those  pine-trees, 
and  hear  the  sea  breaking  on  the  shore.     It  is  fine,  is  it  not  ? " 

"It  is  graud,  my  dear,"  replied  Blanche,  with  gentle 
mockery. 

"Ah  !  you  arc  quizzing — well,  then,  why  do  you  like  it?" 


114  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Because  I  clearly  like  the  scent  of  the  pine-trees,  my  dear — 
for  no  other  reason.  If  I  could  have  them  in  this  room,  and 
the  sea  ten  miles  off,  I  should  like  it  all  the  better.  I  hate  that 
old  moaning  sea." 

She  spoke  so  pettishly,  that  it  was  Sybil's  turn  to  laugh. 

"  Little  the  sea  cares  for  your  hatred,  my  dear,"  she  said 
gayly  ;  "  it  will  moan  as  you  say,  or  roar  even,  whether  you  like 
it  or  not." 

"  Well,  hut  why  does  it  make  me  sick  ?  "  resentfully  asked 
Miss  Cains — "  I  could  endure  it  but  for  that.  I  would  not  kill 
a  fly  if  it  did  not  hurt  me ;  but — "  she  did  not  go  on,  but 
laughed. 

"  But  what  ? "  asked  Sybil. 

"  Nothing- — I  was  going  to  talk  nonsense-;  but  my  plain 
meaning  is  I  must  not  be  bored,  or  worried,  or  balked — it 
changes  my  nature,"  she  added,  with  a  slight  yawn ;  "  and  so  I 
do  hate  the  sea,  and  would  dry  it  up  if  I  could." 

"Hate  away,"  gayly  said  Sybil,  "provided  you  don't 
hate  me." 

"  Hate  you,  my  pet  ?  "  softly  said  Miss  Cains,  looking  at  her 
with  fond  eyes — "  hate  you,  who,  I  do  believe,  would  make  a 
cushion  of  yourself  if  I  wanted  one  !  Why,  that  would  be 
monstrous,  Sybil ! " 

"  Ah !  but  suppose  I  bore,  or  wrong,  or  balk  you  ? "  sug- 
gested Sybil,  gravely. 

Miss  Cains  laughed,  and  shook  her  handsome  head. 

"  You  can't  bore  or  wrong  me,"  she  replied,  "  because  I  love 
you ;  and  you  can't  balk  me,  because  you  love  me." 

"  Is  your  head  better  ?  "  cried  Sybil,  eagerly — "  you  look 
quite  well  again." 

"  My  dear,  it  is  worse,"  replied  Miss  Cains,  with  a  sigh ; 
"  the  truth  is,  talking  does  not  improve  it." 

"  Oh  !  how  selfish  I  am  !  "  said  Sybil,  full  of  remorse.  "  I 
must  go  at  once ;  but  do  you  think  you  ought  to  come  and 
meet  me  ? " 

"  Yes ;  I  feel  sure  the  scent  of  those  trees  will  do  me  good, 
so  pray  wait  for  me." 

Sybil  promised  to  do  so,  and  hurried  away  on  her  errand. 
Miss  Cains  went  with  her  to  the  end  of  the  garden,  and  Sybil, 
looking  round,  saw  her  standing  at  the  head  of  the  stone  steps, 
ti.l  a  clump  of  trees  hid  each  from  the  other's  view.  Sybil  went 
straight  on  for  the  pine-trees,  then  suddenly  it  occurred  to  her 


sybil's  second  love.  115 

that  tlii3  was  the  longest  route,  and  that  she  would  reach  her 
goal  more  quickly  if  she  went  down  by  the  mill. 

Sybil  did  not  like  that  part  of  her  father's  demesnes,  ana 
seldom  took  it ;  for  up  the  stream,  beyond  the  water-cresses, 
there  grew  a  small  wood,  which  she  must  now  cross,  and  which 
she  ever  shunned.  It  is  not  always  on  her  vastest  scenes  that 
Nature  bestows  her  deepest  significance.  A  beetling  crag,  a 
sweep  of  shore,  a  line  of  heath,  are  often  more  impressive  than 
mountain,  ocean,  or  desert,  in  all  their  magnitude.  Many  an 
Alpine  solitude  is  not  so  grand  as  some  bleak  and  narrow  val- 
ley ;  many  a  forest  has  not  so  dark  and  mysterious  a  meaning 
as  this  little  wood,  which  Sybil  disliked,  and  almost  feared. 
Though  so  small  that  in  a  wider  landscape  it  would  not  have 
looked  more  than  a  clump  of  trees,  it  was  strangely  dark  and 
melancholy.  Sybil  was  a  child  of  life  and  light,  and  hated  its 
oppressive  gloom.  A  sense  of  awe  now  stole  over  her  as  she 
entered  the  silent  place. 

The  tall  trees  grew  close  and  high.  Beneath  their  shade 
flowed  the  dark  river.  A  cold  wind  blew  above,  and  passed 
like  a  chill  breath  through  the  nodding  boughs.  Everywhere 
in  the  damp  earth  ferns  grew  high  and  green.  If  birds  ever 
haunted  this  gloomy  spot  they  were  silent  now.  No  love-song 
nor  joyful  cry  was  heard  here — nothing  but  the  low  rush  of  the 
brown  water  in  its  dark  bed.  Surely  some  Druid  priestess  had 
dwelt  here  of  old  ? — surely  this  was  the  very  spot  for  the  rites 
of  a  dark  and  pitiless  faith  ? 

"  I  thiuk  I  shall  turn  back,"  thought  Sybil.  Suddenly  she 
heard  a  step  behind  her,  then  her  name  was  uttered,  and  look- 
ing round  quickly,  she  saw  her  Uncle  Edward. 

"Oh!  lam  so  glad,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief;  "I 
was  getting  frightened  here." 

i' Frightened,  Sybil!  "  he  laughed. 

"  Uncle,  it  is  so  gloomy  that  it  sends  a  chill  through  one's 
heart." 

"  It  is  fine,  Sybil,  very  fine  !  " 

"  I  think  it  dreadful." 

He  did  not  answer,  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  her.  His  eager 
eyes  were  scanning  every  dark  nook  as  if  in  search  of  something. 

"  Are  you  looking  for  serpents  ? "  uneasily  asked  Sybil. 

"  Serpents,  Sybil ! — there  are  none  here.  You  don't  sup- 
pose that  Saint  Patrick,  a  native  of  these  parts,  would  bave 
allowed  them  ? " 


116  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Well,  then,  there  ought  to  be  serpents  here,"  impatiently 
said  Sybil ;  "  this  looks  the  very  spot  for  treason  and  perfidy." 

"Child,  do  not  let  your  imagination  carry  you  away  so, 
Around  these  few  trees  lies  an  arid,  sunburnt  waste.  Moreover, 
cut  one  down,  and  the  sky  looks  in,  and  the  sun  scorches  up 
these  damp-loving  ferns,  and  show's  you  the  pebbly  bottom  of 
the  river — and  the  character  of  the  place  is  gone.  But  since 
you  dislike  it  so  much,  what  brings  you  here,  Sybil  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  Jeanne's." 

"  So  far  alone  ?  " 

And  he  looked  rather  surprised,  and  scarcely  pleased. 

"  Blanche  could  not  come  with  me.  Poor,  dear  Blanche ! 
she  has  such  dreadful  headaches !  It  makes  me  wretched  to 
see  her  in  such  pain." 

"  Nonsense,  Sybil,  Miss  Cains  must  bear  with  her  head- 
aches." 

lie  spoke  impatiently,  and  Sybil  thought  unfeelingly. 

"  But  it  is  a  dreadful  headache,"  she  insisted,  reddening. 
"  It  began  this  morning.  She  could  scarcely  keep  her  eyes 
open.  I  bathed  her  forehead  with  eau-de-Cologne  ever  so  long, 
but  though  she  allowed  it  so  patiently,  it  was  of  no  use." 

"  Patiently  !  Pray  where  was  the  patience  in  letting  your 
little  kind  hands  pour  out  upon  her  that  scent  she  doats  on — to 
use  her  own  expressive  phrase  ? " 

"Don't  be  so  unjust,  uncle.  She  only  did  it  to  please  me. 
And  she  is  so  unselfish.  She  knew  I  liked  going  to  Jeanne's, 
and  she  would  not  let  me  stay  with  her.     Now,  that  was  kind." 

"  Very,"  he  dryly  said. 

"And  I  must  go,  for  I  am  to  wait  for  her  at  the  Pines. 
Good-by,  uncle." 

"No,  do  not — stay  just  a  few  minutes  with  me,  Sybil.  Sit 
down  on  that  bank  by  me.     You  do  not  object? " 

"  No,"  replied  Sybil,  a  little  surprised. 

She  sat  down  as  he  spoke,  and  he  half  sat,  half  stretched 
himself  by  her  side.  She  thought  he  had  something  to  say  to 
her,  but  he  only  looked  at  her  intently,  his  chin  resting  on  the 
palm  of  his  hand,  his  eyes  fastened  on  her  face.  Sybil  was 
going  to  question  him,  when  he  spoke. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  "  did  you  ever  in  your  life  utter  a  false- 
hood— tell  a  lie,  in  short?  I  know  I  have  no  right  to  put  the 
question,  for  even  a  father  confessor  must  hear  and  not  ask  ;  and 
yet,  Sybil,  do  answer  me.     Did  you  ever  do  it  ? " 


Sybil's  second  lote.  117 

"  Well,  uncle,  I  will  tell  you,  because  I  am  proud,  and  it 
will  humble  me — I  did." 

He  looked  disappointed. 

"  You,  too,  Sybil  I "  he  said  in  a  tone  of  regret.  "  Ah !  what 
a  pity ! " 

"Yes,"  returned  Sybil,  reddening,  "but  it  made  me  very 
miserable,  uncle  ;  and  yet,"  she  added,  with  much  contrition, 
"  I  did  it  twice." 

"  Twice,"  he  echoed ;  '  you  actually  did  it  twice,  and  some 
time  back,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  Years,"  replied  Sybil. 

"Two  falsehoods  in  a  lifetime,"  he  repeated  very  gently. 
"  Poor  little  sinner,  but  you  will  never  utter  a  third,  will  you  \  " 

"  Never,  I  hope,"  she  warmly  replied. 

"  Do  not,  Sybil,"  he  said,  with  some  passion — "  do  not.  Let 
Truth  be  your  worship.  There  is  nothing  like  her — nothing ; 
we  all  long  for  and  adore  her ;  the  meanest,  the  vilest,  thirst  for 
her  too,  selfishly,  of  course,  but  still  ardently  ;  for  who  would  be 
deceived,  and  who  does  not  scorn  deceit,  though  himself  a  de- 
ceiver ?  You  have  never  read  Spenser,  Sybil  ?  Well,  I  have ; 
and  I  remember  Una,  my  second  love ;  and,  dike  all  second 
loves,  the  purest  and  the  best." 

"  And  who  was  the  first  ?  "  asked  Sybil,  gravely. 

"Cinderella — dear,  darling  little  Cinderella;  but  you  see  that 
was  pity  ;  now  Una  was  both  pity  and  adoration.  Talking  thus 
with  you,  I  remember  how  she  came  to  the  '  secret  shadow ; ' 
may  be  a  spot  not  unlike  this— a  spot  where  treason  and  perfidy 
look  congenial,  as  you  say.  But  heavenly  Una  laid  her  stole 
aside,  her  angel's  face, 

'  As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shined  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place. '  " 

"  Then  I  wish  she  were  here,"  saucily  interrupted  Sybil. 
"  I  should  like  to  see  a  ray  of  sunshine." 

"  She  is  here,  Sybil — I  see  her." 

"  Where,  then  ? " 

"  With  the  mind's  eye." 

Svbil  laughed. 

"  I  almost  thought  you  meant  me,"  she  said,  gayly. 

"Mean  you,  indeed!  Yon -vain  little  thing!  Why,  child, 
have  you  not  prevaricated  twice?      It  is  quite  dreadful  to  think 


118  sybil's  second  love. 

of,  especially  in  this  world  of  ours,  where  men  brave  and  strong 
can  never  utter  a  falsehood,  and  where  truth  dwells  on  the  lips 
of  young  and  beautiful  women." 

"  Why,  uncle,  how  strangely  you  do  talk ! "  said  Sybil. 

He  laughed  and  rose. 

"  It  is  this  place,"  he  said ;  "  you  are  right,  Sybil,  it  has  a 
chill,  unhealthy  look,  and  I  suppose  suggests  morbid  thoughts. 
Let  us  go  out  into  the  sunshine." 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  limit  of  the  trees,  but  when 
they  reached  it  he  stood  still,  evidently  not  meaning  to  go  any 
farther. 

"  You  will  not  come  with  me  ? "  she  said,  coaxingly. 

"  I  cannot.  Poor  little  Una,  do  not  look  so  disappointed. 
I  am  not  good  enough  to  go  with  you.  I  must  go  back  to  that 
deceitful  wood,  and  try  my  luck  there.  Perhaps  I  shall  find 
some  rare  pearl  after  all — or  may  be  encounter  a  green  dragon, 
or  catch  Melusina  bathing  in  that  black-looking  water." 

"  Uncle,"  again  said  Sybil,  "  how  strangely  you  talk  !  " 

"  Well,  I  believe  I  do,"  he  replied,  after  a  brief  pause ;  "  but 
you  see,  there  are  hidden  griefs  in  every  life  which  must  break 
forth  every  nowand  then,  and  just  now  I  am  wading  knee-deep 
through  the  very  waters  of  bitterness.  I  am  sick  of  it,  Sybil, 
frightfully  sick  of  it." 

His  eyes  flashed,  and  he  bit  his  lips.  Suppressed  passion, 
disgust,  and  anger  were  in  his  aspect.  Sybil  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm,  and  said,  very  earnestly, 

"  Uncle,  can  I  do  nothing  for  you  ?  " 

"  You ! "  he  replied,  his  features  suddenly  relaxing  into  a 
kind  smile;  "you  little  thing,  whom  it  saddens  one  to  see  going 
forth,  all  unarmed  as  you  are,  into  a  world  of  snares  and  pitfalls ; 
you  do  any  thing  for  one  who  would  like  to  do  so  much,  and  can 
do  so  little  for  you !  A  little  while  more,  and  your  path  and 
mine  must  part ;  and,  alas  !  I  know  this  world  is  not  Fairyland, 
and  that  roaring  lions  oftcner  devour  poor  Una  than  they  lick 
her  feet,  and  keep  watch  and  ward  over  the  sleeping  virgin.  I 
wish  I  were  your  father,  my  little  girl ;  if  I  were,  I  wonder  what 
harm  could  come  near  you?" 

"  My  father  will  let  no  harm  come  near  me,"  jealously  said 
Sybil. 

"  Not  if  he  knows  its  existence  ;  but  what  if  he  thinks  harm 
a  good  ? " 

"  Uncle,  you  should  not  talk  so,  it  is  Avrong — quite  wrong." 


Sybil's  second  love.  119 

Sybil's  eyes  sparkled  with  indignation,  but  be  only  smiled, 
and  seemed  ratber  pleased  to  bave  vexed  ber. 

"  I  like  to  see  you  so,  Sybil,"  be  said  gayly ;  "  it  gives  me 
comfort  for  the  future.  You  are  a  brave,  ay,  and  a  resentful 
Irish  girl.  You  trust  entirely,  but  woe  be  to  tbose  who  wrong 
or  deceive  you!  And  now  good-by,  Sybil;  make  up  for  lost 
time,  and  do  not  keep  your  dear  Miss  Cains  waiting." 

He  turned  back  into  tbe  wood,  and  Sybil  walked  along  the 
path  that  led  through  the  moor  in  silent  but  great  indignation, 
at  the  ironical  tone  with  which  ber  Uncle  Edward  bad  uttered 
the  last  words. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

Sybil's  wrath  cooled  as  she  went  on.  It  was  much  weaker 
when  she  reached  Jeanne's  cabin ;  and  there  it  subsided  en- 
tirely, for  the  door  of  the  but  was  fast,  and  there  was  no  one  with- 
in. Sybil  sat  down  to  rest  awhile.  The  river  here  flowed  into  a 
sluggish  pool.  Yellow  rocks,  belonging  to  the  neighboring 
cliffs,  and  baked  by  tbe  sun,  were  piled  behind  the  cabin,  and 
bad  scattered  their  fragments  on  the  banks  of  the  stream. 
Here  sun  and  light  abounded ;  but  here  ceased  the  freshness 
and  verdure  of  earth.  Here  began  a  nature  other  than  that  of 
the  poet's,  yet  not  without  its  own  beauty,  contrasts,  and  bar- 
monies.  A  more  arid  waste  never  greeted  traveller's  ey^un  tho 
sands  of  Africa.  And  this  was  the  spot  which  it  wasTleart- 
breaking  to  leave,  which  it  was  such  happiness  to  remain  in. 

"  Poor  thing  !  "  thought  Sybil.  "  I  am  so  sorry  there  is  no 
one  I  can  tell  the  news  to.  What  a  pity  that  she  must  wait  an- 
other day  !  I  am  glad  now  dear  Blanche  did  not  come.  She 
would  have  been  so  disappointed." 

And,  as  it  was  plain  that  Jeanne's  cabin  was  deserted  for 
the  day,  Sybil,  after  resting  awhile,  rose  and  bent  ber  steps 
homeward.  This  time  she  took  the  longer  and  shadier  route, 
and  soon  found  herself  in  tbe  pine-tree  plantation — wood  or 
forest  it  could  not  be  called — which  skirted  the  seashore. 

Ob !  bow  Sybil  liked  that  spot.  How  she  liked  that  long 
low  glimpse  of  sea  and  golden  west  passing  behind  the  trees, 
and  that  suro-e  breaking  in  strange  music  on  the  smooth  sand 
of  the  shore  !     How  she  liked  that  deep,  calm  gloom  above  her 


120  sybil's  second  love. 

head,  and  that  soft  carpet  under  her  feet,  and  that  sweet  pene- 
trating odor  which  filled  the  air !  She  walked  on,  her  heart 
heating  with  pleasure,  her  whole  being  thrilled  with  secret  de- 
light, till  she  reached  the  try  sting-place.  There  she  sat  and 
again  rested,  for  Miss  Cains,  not  expecting  her  so  soon,  had 
not  yet  made  her  appearance. 

Thought  was  the  food  of  Sybil's  life,  young,  and  inexpe- 
rienced, and,  indeed,  ignorant  of  many  things  though  she  was. 
As  she  now  sat  waiting  for  Miss  Cains,  she  sat  and  thought 
not  of  her,  however,  but  of  her  Uncle  Edward.  Sybil  was 
trusting,  because  she  herself  was  true  ;  but  there  is  a  calm  and 
happy  faith  which,  though  it  serves  to  blind,  does  not  always 
exclude  penetration.  Sybil  wore  a  bandage  over  her  eyes  when 
she  loved,  but  when  her  affection  was  not  called' into  jeopardy, 
when  she  could  see  and  not  doubt,  Sybil  was  keen-sighted 
enough,  and  could  cast  a  deep  and  searching  look  in  matters 
that  seemed  beyond  her  years,  and  were  certainly  beyond  her 
experience.  Her  uncle  appeared  to  her  under  a  new  aspect, 
and  Sybil  was  quick  in  apprehending  its  meaning.  He  had 
called  himself  prose  to  her,  and  prose  he  was  in  some  things. 
He  had  a  clear,  firm  mind,  which  abhorred  all  vagueness,  as 
matter  was  said  to  abhor  the  vacuum  of  the  old  philosophers. 
He  was  severe  and  sometimes  cynical  in  his  censure  of  this 
world's  falsehoods  and  assumptions ;  but  he  was  not  heartless. 
No,  Sybil  had  seen  it  that  day  by  his  quivering  lip  and  his 
troubled  eye — Pain  had  her  hold  upon  him  too,  that  cruel  grasp 
which  she  willingly  foregoes  from  none  of  her  mortal  children. 
He  could  suffer  keenly,  Sybil  was  sure  of  it  now ;  and  whatever 
the  cause  of  that  suffering  might  be,  feeling,  strong  and  deep, 
was  its  source.  The  cold,  the  callous,  have  no  such  secret 
anguish  to  hide  as  he  had  half  betrayed  to  her  that  morning. 
They  need  never  break  out  into  those  half-bitter,  half-passionate 
ejaculations,  which,  for  the  first  time,  had  passed  his  lips  in 
Sybil's  hearing.  Ay,  he  was  very  different  from  what  he  hail 
seemed — Sybil  was  very  sure  of  it  now.  Strong  though  he 
looked,  a  tender  heart  lay  hidden  beneath  that  defiant  smile. 

There  is  strange  fascination  in  the  searching  thoughts  that 
have  some  half-known,  half-hidden  character  for  their  object. 
Sybil  let  time  go  by  and  forgot  it,  and  did  not  see  a  darkening 
sky  nor  a  coming  storm  till  thunder  rolled  and  lightning  flashed. 
She  started  to  her  feet  and  hurried  homeward.  Her  path  now 
lay  wholly  by  the  sea,  and  what  a  grand  sight  met  her  view  ! 


sybil's  second  love.  121 

The  sky  bent  over  the  heaving  waters.  Between  these  stretched 
a  space  not  clear,  nor  yet  quite  dark.  There  thunder  lay  brood- 
ing like  a  lion  in  his  lair.  A  fishing-boat,  with  anxious  sails 
outspread,  flew  home  on  green  and  livid-looking  waves.  Sybil 
was  not  timid  by  nature,  and  she  liked  that  fierce  war  of  the 
elements.     She  stopped  to  look  and  admire. 

"  Sybil,  Sybil,"  said  her  uncle's  voice  behind  her,  "  what  are 
you  doing  here  ?  " 

She  looked  round  and  saw  him  carrying  her  cloak  and  um- 
brella. 

"  Quick  ! "  he  said  ;  "  do  not  linger — quick,  Sybil !  " 

He  was  hurrying  her  away,  when  suddenly  h^  stood  still. 

"  If  that  cloud  breaks  into  rain,"  he  said,  "  you  will  be 
drenched.  Neither  cloak  nor  umbrella  will  save  you.  You  see 
the  coastguard's  hut  yonder — shall  we  have  a  run  for  it?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  let  us,"  she  eagerly  replied ;  "  I  hate  being  wet — 
and  I  like  a  run  of  all  things." 

"  Well,  then,  come  on." 

Sybil  was  light  and  fleet,  and  her  feet  now  scarcely  seemed 
to  touch  the  earth.  Her  Uncle  Edward  had  taken  her  hand, 
lest  she  should  fall  or  stumble  over  the  uneven  ground  ;  but  he 
had  no  need  to  support  or  assist  her.    . 

"  Why,  what  a  little  light-footed  nymph  you  are,"  he  said, 
gayly,  as  they  reached  the  hut ;  "  and  we  are  in  time,  too." 

"  The  door  is  locked,  uncle." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  must  turn  burglar,  that  is  all." 

Before  she  could  remonstrate,  he  had  picked  up  a  pebble, 
broken  the  lock,  and  forced  the  door  open.  They  entered  the 
hut  in  time  ;  scarcely  had  its  door  closed  upon  them,  when  the 
cloud  broke,  and  the  rain  came  pouring  down  in  torrents.  Her 
first  feeling  of  joy  at  having  reached  a  safe  refuge  over,  Sybil 
began  to  look  around  her.  Nothing  could  be  ruder  than  this 
retreat.  Its  walls  were  of  clay,  but  thick  enough  to  withstand 
the  storm ;  and  its  thatched  roof  was  an  effectual  shelter  against 
the  rain.  It  had  a  door  and  a  narrow  window,  and  by  way  of 
furniture,  a  stool,  on  which  Sybil  sat  down,  whilst  her  uncle 
held  fast  the  door,  which  shook  in  the  wind.  The  rain  was 
dashing  down  with  furious  force,  and  Sybil,  in  great  glee  at 
having  escaped  it,  cried,  as  she  clapped  her  hands  : 

"  We  are  safe  ! — we  are  safe  !  " 

"Very  true;  but  pray  what  kept  you  out  with  this  storm 


coming  on  ? " 


6 


122  SYBIL  S  SECOXD  LOVE. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  Blanche,  uncle." 

"And  the  fair  Blanche,  seeing  the  sty  covered  with  heavy 
clouds,  declared  you  could  not  possibly  expect  her,  and  stayed 
within." 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  it,"  stoutly  said  Sybil ;  "  I  should  not 
like  her  to  he  out  in  this  weather.  It  was  that  storm  which 
made  her  head  ache,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  No  more  have  I,"  he  dryly  replied ;  "  electricity  must 
have  much  influence  on  Miss  Cains.  She  looks  so  sensitive, 
you  know." 

" "  She  is  sensitive,"  said  Sybil,  "  and  I  wish,  uncle,  you  would 
not  spoil  your  kindness  in  coming  out  for  me,  by  speaking  so 
of  dear  Blanche." 

"  My  dear,  I  shall  not  say  another  word  .about  her,  there- 
fore we  must  needs  agree.  But  allow  me  to  wonder  at  the  fas- 
cination which  made  you  stay  out  so  long.  Pray,  on  which  of 
her  many  virtues  were  you  meditating  ? " 

"  I  was  not  thinking  about  her  at  all,"  shortly  replied  Sybil, 
"  I  was  thinking  of  some  one  very  different  from  Blanche  Cains. 
I  was  thinking  of  you,  uncle." 

"  "Were  you  ?     Pray,  what  might  your  thoughts  be  ?  " 

Sybil  sat  on  the  stool,  and  he  stood  before  her,  leaning 
against  the  wall  of  the  hut,  his  right  hand  keeping  fast  and 
closed  the  frail  door,  which  the  wind  shook  wildly.  He  gazed 
down  at  the  young  girl,  and  his  luminous  gray  eyes  had  a 
look  so  penetrating"  that  she  blushed  a  little ;  but  she  .replied 
frankly  : 

"I  was  thinking,  uncle,  that  you  are  not  happy,  and  wish- 
ing I  could  relieve  you." 

"  Not  happy  !   '  Who  told  you  so  ? " 

"  You  did,  "uncle,  have  vou  forgotten  it  ? " 

"  Oh  !  it  will  blow  off,""  he  said  lightly. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  but  it  is  hard." 

"  Hard*!  "  he  cried,  stamping  his  foot ;  "  Sybil,  it  is  intoler- 
able." 

She  rose  and  went  up  to  him. 

"  Uncle,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  speak,  it  will  relieve  you  ;  on 
my  word  no  one  shall  know  it — not  even  Blanche  Cain 

-  Xot  even  Blanche  Caines?"  he  repeated  smiling,  "  and  on 
your  word,  too  ;  your  yea  and  nay  would  have  sufficed,  Sybil — 
I  know  you  are  incapable  of  betrayal ;  but  it  would  not  relieve 
me  to  tell  you — the  trouble  which  words  relieve  is  a  light  one. 


123 


SYBIL  S   SEC02TO   LOVE. 

Why,  its  very  nature  would  be  a  mystery  to  you.  I  am  a 
slave,  Sybil,  and  I  loathe  my  bondage — that's  all." 

"  You  are  married  !  "  cried  Sybil,  amazed. 

In  a  moment  his  face  was  all  in  a  flame. 

"  Who  told  you  so  ? "  he  asked,  looking  confounded  at  her 
quickness. 

"  No  one,"  replied  Sybil,  confused  ;  "  I  guessed  it." 

"  Well,  Sybil,"  he  said  after  a  short  pause,  and  speaking  in 
a  much  calmer  tone,  "  you  are  a  good  archer ;  but  yet  your 
arrrow  overshot  the  mark.     I  am  not  married,  but  engaged." 

"  And  vou  do  not  like  her  ? "  He  was  silent.  "  But  she 
likes  you." 

"  Does  she !     She  is  a  sphinx." 

"  Ah  !  you  like  another,"  exclaimed  Sybil,  thinking  that 
other  must  be  Blanche  Cains,  and  feeling  a  great  throb  of  guilty 

"  What  if  I  do,"  he  said  with  his  keenest  look,  "  does  that 
set  me  free  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  Sybil  abashed. 

"  Well  spoken,  little  casuist.  Well,  be  it  known  unto  you 
that  I  do  not  like  another — I  have  not  even  the  poor  excuse  of 
faithlessness.  My  little  cruise  went  to  the  well  once  on  a  time, 
and  came  back  full,  and  thought  itself  a  very  fountain,  and  lo 
and  behold  you  ! — looking  into  it  the  other  clay  I  found  that 
the  waters  we're  spilt  and  gone,  and  the  poor  cruise  all  barren 
and  dry.  Whose  is  the  blame,  Sybil — hers  or  mine  ?  Was  I 
too  careless,  or  was  she  too  prodigal  ?  I  know  not,  but,  alas  ! 
where  are  those  sweet  waters  now  ?  What  arid  earth  or  barren 
sand  has  drunk  them  up,  God  knows,  Sybil ;  but  they  are 
gone,  and  gone  forever,  and  I  am  bound,  and  can  I  ever  be  free 
again  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Sybil,  "  you  cannot.     Never  ! " 

Her  uncle  seemed  to  wince  as  she  uttered  the  words. 

"  You  are  made  of  steel,"  he  said  ;  "  I  have  already  noticed 
that  terrible  rigidity  in  you.  What  is  right  is  and  must  be — 
escape  or  evasion  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  And  yet,  Sybil,  life 
has  many  loopholes." 

"  Uncle,  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,"  gently  said  Sybil ;  "  but 
perhaps  you  will  like  her  again." 

"  Water  flows  on,  Sybil,  never  backward." 

"  But  why,  having  liked  her  once,  not  like  her  now,  uncle  ? " 

He  laughed  at  the  question. 


124  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Thereby  Langs  a  tale,"  he  said,  "  and  where's  the  use  of 
telling  it  ?  It  is  so  old,  so  very  old  a  story,  Sybil.  Ah  !  if  the 
heart  would  but  be  changeless  !     If  what  charmed  once  would 

o 

but  charm  forever  !  There  was  a  time  when  a  storin  like  this 
would  have  seemed  sunshine  if  it  led  to  her ;  and  now,  oh  ! 
how  sweet  it  would  be  to  be  out  in  that  drenching  rain,  and 
feel  its  dullness  in  my  very  marrow,  if  by  so  doing  I  could  but 
escape  once  that  formerly  worshipped  presence.  Do  not  loot  so 
scared,  Sybil,  and  let  us  have  no  more  of  that  dreary  talk. 
How  is  the  storm  getting  on  ?     Clearing,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Uncle,  will  you  really  marry  her  ? "  asked  Sybil. 

"  Why,  of  course  I  will — did  you  not  say  yourself  I  must  ? " 

"  But  hating  her  so  !  " 

"  I  do  not  hate  her  at  all,  my  good  little  girt !  Why  should 
I  ?  but  oh  !  I  confess  it,  I  do  abhor  my  self-sought  boudage  ! 
What  about  it  ? " 

He  was  quite  callous,  quite  defiant  again.     Sybil  shuddered. 

"  Oh  !  how  dreadful,"  she  said  under  her  breath,  "  how 
dreadful  for  you — and  for  her  !  " 

"  I  dare  say  she  will  never  know  any  thing  about  it,"  he  re- 
plied carelessly.  "  I  am  not  going  to  tell  her,  you  know.  Let 
us  hope,  Sybil,  that  she  will  live  and  die  thinking  herself  an 
adored  woman." 

But  Sybil,  looking  on  the  mud  floor  of  the  cabin,  thought : 
"  God  forbid  this  should  ever  be  my  fate  I " 

"  The  rain  is  over,  Sybil ;  let  us  go.  Your  poor  little  feet 
must  be  wet,  unless  you  will  let  me  carry  you  home." 

"  Carry  me  ! "  echoed  Sybil — "  no,  uncle,  I  am  very  heavy." 

"  Ah  !  to  be  sure.  I  had  forgotten  that.  Come,  put  that 
cloak  around  you,  and  let  us  be  gone." 

Sybil  obeyed.  They  went  out ;  the  sky  was  clear  again, 
with  a  few  heavy  purple  clouds ;  the  sea  shone  and  sparkled, 
yet  rain  still  fell,  and  Uncle  Edward  opened  the  umbrella,  and 
held  it  above  Sybil  as  they  walked  along. 

"Uncle,"  she  said,  very  gravely,  "you  liked  her  once,  and 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  if  this  misunderstanding  were 
over — " 

"  There  is  no  misunderstanding,"  he  interrupted. 

Sybil  was  a  little  abashed. 

"  Well,  but,  uncle,"  she  said,  rallying,  "  there  is  something." 

"  My  dear  Sybil,  how  can  you  talk  of  such  things  under  an 
umbrella  ?     In  that  little  hut  beyond,  with  the  rain  dashing  and 


Sybil's  second  loye.  125 

the  storm  rolling;,  I  could  talk  nonsense  ;  but  with  this  umbrel- 
la over  my  head — a  cotton  one,  too,  borrowed  from  the  kitchen 
— I  feel  chilled  into  commonplace  itself." 

He  spoke  quite  lightly,  but  Sybil  could  uot  forget  what  she 
had  heard.  She  looked  up  at  him  very  earnestly — so  earnestly, 
that  he  suddenly  stood  still. 

"  You  should  not,  uncle,"  she  said,  gravely — "  look,  I  am 
standing  in  the  mud." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  ;  but  why  did  you  look  up  at  me  so  with 
those  soft,  pitiful  eyes  of  yours  ?  Those  eyes  should  not  belong 
to  you,  Sybil,  for  you  are  a  child,  and  their  youth  has  some- 
thing eternal  in  it." 

"  My  eyes  are  my  own,"  saucily  said  Sybil,  who  knew  quite 
well  that  she  had  fine  eyes,  having  been  told  so  from  her  child- 
hood upward  ;  "  but  oh  !  uncle,  how  can  you  talk  so  ? — under 
an  umbrella,  too  !  " 

He  did  not  mind  her. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  still  without  moving,  and  forgetting  that 
they  were  in  a  pool  of  water,  "  do  not  pity  me — never  pity  a 
man.  I  told  you  so  once — I  tell  you  so  again.  It  is  his  fate  to 
get  out  of  trouble,  or  if  he  cannot,  to  bear  it ;  but,  Sybil,  my 
dear,  such  a  net  as  I  am  now  in  may  some  day  be  cast  around 
you.  Do  not  struggle  in  its  meshes,  but  tell  me — tell  me,  Sybil 
— and  it  will  be  hard  indeed  if  I  do  not  set  you  free." 

"Thank  you,  uncle,"  said  Sybil,  nimbly  walking  away  from 
his  side  ;  "  your  boots  are  thick,  and  mine  are  thin,  and  so  you 
recklessly  lead  me  into  pools  of  water.  But  we  are  at  home 
now,  and  as  I  am  half  drowned,  I  shall  leave  you,  with  many 
thanks  for  your  kindness." 

She  waved  her  hand,  and  tripped  away,  skipping  over  the 
quagmires  of  the  path,  and  not  once  looking  round  at  him.  lie 
closed  his  umbrella,  and  followed  her;  but  Sybil  never  seemed 
aware  of  his  presence  till  they  both  reached  the  house,  and 
were  received  by  Miss  Cains,  who  was  anxiously  waiting  for 
them  on  the  threshold. 

"My  poor  darling,  what  a  mess  you  are  in?"  she  exclaimed, 
looking  pitifully  at  Sybil's  feet. 

"  Yes,"  gravely  replied  Sybil — "  uncle  praised  my  eyes,  and 
led  me  straight  into  the  mud." 

Miss  Cains  laughed,  and  looked  at  Sybil's  uncle,  who  re- 
turned the  gaze  with  something  like  defiance.  Sybil  saw  the 
look,  and,  thinking  that  she  read  its  meaning,  was  silenced  at 


12G  sybil's  second  love. 

once  by  the  revelation.  She  went  up  to  her  room,  and  took  oil 
her  wet  clothes,  and  thought:  "Can  it  really  be?"  It  so 
chanced  that  when  she  came  down  again  she  met  her  uncle  on 
the  staircase.  He  seemed  inclined  to  pass  by  her  without 
speaking,  but  Sybil  addressed  him  : 

"  Uncle,"  she  said,  very  earnestly,  "  I  know  it  all  now." 

"  What  all  ? " 

"Why,  you  don't  like  Blanche,"  she  answered,  in  a  very 
low  tone. 

He  stood  quite  still,  looking  at  her  gravely.  Sybil  bent  and 
whispered  in  his  ear, 

"  Blanche  is  like  her." 

He  did  not  answer  her  at  once. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  length,  "  that  is  it,  Sybil— she  is  like  her." 

He  went  up  undetained  by  Sybil,  who  went  down,  secretly 
amazed  and  triumphant  at  her  penetration,  and  also  thinking : 
"  If  she  is  as  handsome  as  Blanche,  why  does  he  not  like  her  ?  " 


-*-♦♦- 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

Before  Sybil  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  the  door 
of  Miss  Cains's  room  opened,  and  that  young  lady  herself  came 
down  rather  quickly  after  her.  She  looked  very  bright  and  airy, 
and  it  was  plain  that  her  headache  was  all  gone. 

"  Now,  my  poor  little  Sybil,"  she  said,  locking  her  arm 
within  that  of  her  friend,  "  what  kept  you  out  so  long  ?  I  could 
not  believe  you  were  waiting  for  me,  but  your  uncle  would  have 
it  that  you  were,  and  went  forth  to  meet  you,  whilst  your  aunt 
gave  him  scornful  looks — they  do  not  agree,  do  they?" 

"  Aunt  does  not  like  uncle — I  cannot  imagine  why,"  replied 
Sybil. 

"  Can't  you,  you  dear  little  simple  thing  ? — why,  it  is  as  plain 
as  plain  can  be." 

"Do  you  know  why,  Blanche?" 

"  Well,  I  believe  I  do,  but  I  shall  not  tell  you — it  would  be  a 
pity ;  besides,  it  would  interfere  with  my  plans — you  know  I  am 
still  finding  out  wonderful  things  about  Mr.  Smith." 

"  Are  you,  Blanche  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  am,  and  you  could  help  me,  if  you  liked  ;  your 


sybil's  second  love.  127 

uncle  would  be  sure  to  tell  you  if  you  would  only  set  the  right 
way  about  it.     Confess  he  tells  you  every  thing  ? " 

She  turned  sharply  upon  Sybil  as  she  made  this  remark,  but 
though  Sybil  blushed  a  little,  she  did  not  feel  tempted  to  betray 
her  uncle  to  Blanche. 

"  I  wish  he  did  tell  me  every  thing,"  she  said ;  "  but  the  fact 
is,  he  has  a  way  of  putting  me  off,  and  I  cau  get  nothing  out  of 
him." 

"  He  is  afraid  you  would  tell  me,"  said  Miss  Cains. 
"But  I  would  not  tell  you,"  rejoined  Sybil.     "I  would  tell 
no  one,  and  he  need  not  fear." 

"You  are  an  austere  little  thing,"  said  Blanche  gravely; 
"  but  for  all  that  you  have  a  tell-tale  face ;  and  something  passed 
between  Greeneyes  and  you  when  you  were  out  together. 
There,  you  need  not  redden  so — I  do  not  care  about  his  secrets, 
child,  and  you  have  none.  Indeed,  I  have  other  fish  to  fry.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  the  cabal,  Sybil,  and  as  my  name  is 
Blanche  Cains,  I  will  make  these  young  ladies  repent  their  in- 
tended insult  upon  you. 

Miss  Cains  looked  very  handsome  as  she  uttered  this  defiant 
speech.  Indeed,  from  the  moment  that  the  cabal  against  Sybil 
was  fully  explained  to  Blanche  Cains,  that  heroic  young  lady 
declared  it  was  her  firm  resolve  to  annihilate  it.  Now,  Miss 
Glyn,  on  learning  the  circumstances  of  the  cabal,  felt  deeply 
incensed  against  the  ladies,  English  and  French,  old  and  young, 
with  whom  it  had  originated ;  but  she  felt  more  than  incensed 
with  the  avowed  intention  of  Miss  Cains.  That  this  little  up- 
start should  be  her  niece's  champion  was  insufferable.  She 
had  not  liked  Miss  Cains  from  the  first ;  but  after  the  bold  con- 
fession which  Blanche  again  uttered  this  day  at  dinner,  "  I  never 
allow  my  enemies  to  get  ahead  of  me,"  she  fairly  detested  her. 
She  was  sure,  she  was,  that  there  was  defiance  in  Miss  Blanche's 
blue  eye  as  it  lit  upon  her,  and  she  took  the  declaration  as  a 
challenge — neither  more  nor  less. 

"  My  dear  James,"  she  said  to  her  brother-in-law  after  din- 
ner, "I  am  very  sorry  that  Miss  Cains  is  with  Sybil.     I  do  not 
like  her  manner;  she  talks  slang;  she  is  insolent,  and  she  stares 
at  men  in  a  way  which  is  quite  shocking." 
"  Men  !  what  men?  "  asked  Mr.  Kennedy. 
"  Well,  I  did  not  mean  you." 

"  Then  you  meant  my  brother  Edward.    I  have  not  noticed 
it ;  but  for  once  we  agree.     I  neither  like  that  young  lady  nor 


128  sybil's  second  love. 

her  manners ;  only,  poor  wretch,  I  cannot  turn  her  out,  cai* 
I?" 

"But  surely  she  is  not  going  to  stay  here  forever  ?" 

"  She  has  not  been  here  a  week,"  shortly  replied  Mr.  Kenne- 
dy; and  as  it  was  plain  that  they  would  soon  cease  to  agree  if 
they  pursued  this  subject,  he  walked  away  and  left  Miss  Glyn 
with  the  memory  of  a  new  wrong  to  treasure  up  against  poor 
Miss  Cains. 

Poverty  is  a  sharp  school;  moreover,  though  Miss  Cains 
was  not  an  ardent  reader  like  Sybil,  and  did  not  go  wild  about 
dead  men  and  women,  she  had  plenty  of  cleverness.  She  was 
quick-witted,  brave,  and  keen-sighted.  She  knew  her  enemies 
at  once,  and  neither  feared  nor  spared  them. 

"  My  usual  luck,"  she  said  to  Sybil,  as  they  walked  in  the 
garden  after  dinner.  "  I  have  affronted  your  aunt.  Look  at 
her  talking  to  your  father — it  is  about  me.  She  is  telling  him 
that  I  am  vulgar  and  can  only  spoil  you.  Sybil — Sybil,"  she 
added,  almost  sadly,  "  why  is  it  no  one  loves  me  ? " 

"  But  you  are  loved !  "  cried  Sybil. 

"No,"  replied  her  friend,  sitting  down  on  a  bench  in  the 
sun.  "  Women  fear  me,  and  men  admire  me,  but  no  one  loves 
me!" 

"  But  I  do — I  do  ! "  said  Sybil,  throwing  her  arms  around 
her.     "  I  love  you  !  " 

As  a  rule,  Miss  Cains  rather  submitted  to  Sybil's  girlish 
fondness  than  liked  it.  She  valued  her  affection,  but  had  been 
too  much  tossed  about  by  a  hard  world  to  care  for  her  caresses. 
Now,  however,  she  caught  her  in  her  arms,  and  nearly  smoth- 
ered her  with  kisses,  and  all  the  while  her  tears  flowed  and  sobs 
broke  from  her. 

"  Sybil,  I  am  wretched,"  she  said — "  I  am  miserable — the 
whole  world  is  against  me  !" 

"  Now,  that's  nonsense,"  interrupted  Sybil,  drawing  away 
to  look  at  her,  "  Perhaps  we  shall  have  a  cabal  against  you, 
too  ;  but  until  then,  how  can  you  say  the  whole  world  is 
against  you  ?" 

But  though  Blanche  checked  her  tears,  her  blue  eyes  kept 
a  moody  look. 

"  I  know  what  I  am  saying,"  she  said.  "  Why  does  not 
your  uncle  go  to  Mrs.  Ronald's  party,  Sybil  ? " 

"  Is  he  not  going  2  "  asked  Sybil. 

"  No  ;  I  saw  him  this  morning  on  the  staircase,  and  I  asked 


sybil's  second  love.  129 

him  if  tomorrow  were  not  the  day  of  the  party.  He  replied  lie 
did  not  know,  that  he  was  not  going.  And  now  shall  I  tell 
you  why  he  is  not  going? — because  he  is  afraid  of  me. 
Yes,  afraid  of  rne  ;  that  Greeneyes  is  prudent.  I  know,  or 
at  least  I  guess,  what  promise  you  reminded  him  of  the  other 
evening,  when  I  said  I  expected  no  partners.  Of  course,  you 
had  made  him  promise  to  dance  with  me,  or  something  of  the 
kind.  Well,  rather  than  keep  his  word,  and  commit  himself,  he 
will  not  go.  Sybil — Sybil,  I  am  afraid  you  have  gone  beyond 
the  dancing.  Perhaps  you  suggested  that  he  should  marry 
your  poor  friend.  There,  you  are  red  enough — you  stand  con- 
fessed !     Well,  poor  child,  I  forgive  you,  but  never  do  it  again." 

When  Sybil  could  speak,  it  was  to  say, 

"  Blanche,  you  frighten  me  !  " 

"  Why  so  ? " 

"  You  are  so  dreadfully  clear-sighted." 

"  Am  I  ?  Well,  you  are  not,  to  he  sure,  and  therefore  it 
seems  marvellous  to  you,  who  go  about  life  with  bandaged  eyes, 
tbat  I  should  see  my  way  as  I  do.  Never  mind;  of  the  two 
you  will  fare  the  better  in  the  main,  and  my  clear-sightedness 
only  helps  to  give  me  pain.  And  now,  child,"  she  added,  with 
a  sudden  change  of  tone  and  manner,  "  do  let  us  see  about 
those  white  roses — will  they  do,  or  not  ? 

This  important  question  took  them  in,  and  was  debated  and 
aigued  again  and  again,  and  not  finally  settled  till  the  next  day, 
an  hour  before  dressing  for  the  ball. 

"Blanche,  you  are  splendidly  handsome!"  said  Sybil,  as 
they  entered  Mrs.  Ronald's  drawing-room  with  Mr.  Kennedy 
and  Miss  Glyn  ;  "mind  you  do  not  let  the  cabal  triumph." 

"  If  I  do ! "  said  Blanche ;  a  smile  of  saucy  triumph  told 
her  meaning. 

Miss  Glyn's  worst  presentiments  were  fulfilled  on  that  fatal 
evening.  Sybil  was  eclipsed  by  her  friend,  and  looked  insignifi- 
cant by  her  side ;  and  this  was  to  be  her  first  interview  with 
Count  de  Renneville ! 

Exasperating  though  it  was  to  let  Sybil  wear  blue,  which  did 
not  suit  her,  Miss  Glyn  had  submitted  to  this  crying  evil,  rather 
than  betray  her  secret,  by  seeming  to  take  an  undue  interest 
in  her  niece's  good  looks.  She  even  declined  to  superintend 
her  preparations,  or  to  advise  her  in  any  manner,  and  kept  up 
an  appearance  of  injured  dignity,  which  could  not  but  deceive 
Mr.  Kennedy,  who,  indeed,  did  not  suspect  any  one  would  at- 
6* 


130  SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOVE. 

tempt  to  provide  his  daughter  with  a  husband  without  first  con 
suiting  him  aud  Sybil,  who  did  not  think  about  a  husband  at 
all.  But  there  was  a  third  person  whom  this  matter  did  not 
seem  to  concern,  and  who  yet  proved  more  clear-sighted  than 
Miss  Glyn  would  have  liked  had  she  known  it ;  this  was  Miss 
Blanche  Cains. 

"Your  aunt  is  up  to  something,"  she  repeatedly  said  to 
Sybil ;  "  I  see  it     I  tell  you  there  is  something  in  the  wind." 

"  Something ! — what  then  ? "  asked  Sybil  amazed. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  but  something  there  is." 

Sybil  looked  at  Blanche,  and  thought  she  knew  what  ailed 
her  aunt.  Miss  Cains  was  certainly  very  beautiful  that  evening, 
and  no  one  admired  her  more  than  generous  little  Sybil. 

"  What  a  grand,  sparkling  creature  she  is  !  "  .she  whispered 
to  her  father. 

He  gave  Miss  Cains  a  critical  look,  and  smiled. 

"Yes,  she  is  not  amiss,"  he  said.  "I  think  I  shall  dance 
with  her.     Must  I,  Sybil  ? " 

"  Oh  !   do,"  she  entreated. 

He  went  and  asked  Miss  Cains,  who  stood  a  few  paces  off. 
She  smiled  and  bowed  assent;  and  Sybil,  whom  a  tall  handsome 
man  had  just  asked  and  was  leading  out,  watched  them,  to  the 
no  small  detriment  of  her  partner.  In  vain  did  this  gentleman 
seek  to  engage  her  attention.  Miss  Kennedy's  eyes  were  too 
busy  for  her  mind  not  to  follow  them.  What  a  noble  pair  they 
looked !  Blanche  was  so  lovely,  with  that  white  wrrcath  in  her 
hair ;  and  the  row  of  pearls  with  the  sparkling  heart  affixed  to 
it  which  encircled  her  throat — Sybil's  gift — was  not  purer  in 
hue  than  the  fair  neck  on  which  it  rested.  Then  she  had  such 
fine  features  and  such  noble  shoulders,  and  she  was  such  a 
grand-looking  creature  altogether,  that  Sybil  thought, 

"  Oh  !  what  a  pity  uncle  could  not  fall  in  love  with  and 
marry  her!  She  would  just  do  for  him,  and  he  would  just  do 
for  her." 

So  strong  was  this  impression,  that  she  could  not  help  im- 
parting one  of  its  main  features  to  Blanche  when  they  met 
again  in  a  pause  of  the  dancing.  Miss  Cains  was  fanning  her- 
self with  much  zeal,  and  Mr.  Kennedy  had  gone  to  fetch  her  an 
ice,  wdien  Sybil  said  eagerly, 

"  Now,  Blanche,  confess  there  is  no  one  here  so  handsome 
as  Uncle  Edward." 

Blanche  stared,  then  looked  frigid. 


sybil's  second  love.  131 

"  Oh !  he  has  green  eyes>  you  know." 

"  He  has  not,  Blanche." 

Miss  Cains  laughed  carelessly,  and  said, 

"  Nonsense  ! "  then  added  quickly,  "  I  told  you  that  your 
aunt  was  up  to  something;  I  know  it  now,  Sybil." 

"  Know  ! — know  what  ?  " 

Blanche  did  not  answer;  Sybil's  partner  had  come  back, 
and  with  him  Mr.  Kennedy.  The  dancing  beo-an  anew,  and 
they  had  no  immediate  opportunity  of  renewing  their  discourse. 

In  spite  of  the  cabal,  Sybil  had  a  few  partners,  but  Miss 
Cains  had  a  superfluity  of  this  precious  commodity.  She 
danced  three  times  running  with  Mr.  Kennedy,  who  seemed 
nothing  loth,  and  after  him  with  every  man  who  was  so  for- 
tunate as  to  secure  her.  She  was  evidently  the  queen  of  the 
night,  and  evidently,  too,  she  saw  and  enjoyed  her  success. 

"  She  is  certainly  a  fine  girl,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy  to  his 
daughter ;  but  is  she  not  a  bit  of  a  flirt,  Sybil  ?  " 

"  A  flirt ! — no,  iudeed,"  was  the  indignant  reply ;  "I  am 
amazed  at  you,  papa." 

"Are  you,  my  dear? — well,  at  all  events,  you  will  grant 
there  is  not  much  in  her  ? " 

"  Xot  much  !     "Why,  papa,  she  is  amazingly  clever  !  " 

"Is  she  really?"  he  answered  carelessly;  "I  should  not 
have  thought  so." 

And  seeing  some  one  whom  he  knew  in  the  crowd,  Mr. 
Kennedy  rose  and  walked  away.  Sybil  felt  vexed.  How  tire- 
some no  one  appreciated  dear  Blanche  !  And  then  how  strange 
her  father  did  not  make  her  dance,  but  left  her  without  a  part- 
ner, sitting  near  her  aunf,  who  was  all-absorbed  with  these 
French  people !  A  very  close,  and,  if  Sybil  had  but  known  it, 
a  very  interesting  conversation  was  then  going  on  between  Miss 
Glyn  and  a  dowager  lady  and  her  son ;  but  Sybil,  looking  on 
dolefully  at  the  dancing,  in  which  she  could  not  join,  lent  it  but 
an  inattentive  ear.  There  they  were,  chatting  away  about  "  so- 
cial progress,  and  the  element  of  commerce  in  modern  society, 
and  the  might  of  capital,"  and  what  was  it  all  to  her  ? 

"Capital,"  said  the  dowager's  son,  "is  simply  the  grand 
hinge  on  which  society  now  revolves." 

"  I  think  so,"  dogmatically  replied  Miss  Glyn. 

The  gentleman  bowed,  and  resumed, 

"  Supported  by  your  authority,  I  will  venture  to  add,  that 
'capital  is  society — take  away  capital,  and  BOciety  vanishes." 


132  Sybil's  second  love. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Next  to  capital  comes  the  working  of  capital,"  resumed 
the  gentleman;  and  that  ought  to  be  the  special  duty  of  ever) 
man  who  means  to  keep  on  a  par  with  his  age." 

To  this  axiom,  Miss  Glyn  added  an  unexpected  corollary — 

"  I  think  women  ought  to  work  capital  too." 

The  gentleman  seemed  taken  by  surprise  ;  but  he  recovered 
quickly,  and  said, 

"  Very  true." 

"  I  think  women  have  a  strong  business  talent,"  resumed 
Miss  Glyn,  fastening  her  brown  eye  upon  him. 

"  Diplomatic,"  he  suggested. 

"  And  administrative  too,"  she  rejoined,  a  little  severely. 

He  bowed  his  graceful  head,  and  declared  he  did  not 
doubt  it. 

Sybil  suppressed  a  yawn,  and  began  to  think  that  it  was  not 
all  pleasure  to  go  to  parties.  Suddenly  Blanche  came  up  to 
her.  She  took  the  place  Mr.  Kennedy  had  left  vacant,  aud 
whispered  eagerly, 

"  Well,  I  was  right,  was  I  not  ? " 

Sybil's  surprise  was  so  great,  and  so  legibly  expressed  in  her 
countenance,  that  Blanche  saw  the  propriety  of  leading  her 
away.  She  took  her  arm,  and  did  so  with  as  much  composure 
as  if  she  had  been  one  of  Mrs.  Ronald's  oldest  guests. 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  said,  as  they  paced  a  comparatively 
quiet  part  of  the  ball-room,  "  I  told  you  there  was  something, 
and  you  must  be  a  little  goose  not  to  have  found  it  out.  But, 
first  of  all,  Avhy  don't  you  dance  ?  " 

"  Why,  because  I  am  not  asked." 

"  Why  don't  you  make  yourself  be  asked  ?  " 

"  Now,  Blanche—" 

"  Now,  Sybil,  I  am  not  going  to  stand  that — there  you  are, 
the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room,  without  a  partner.  Why  did  you 
not  tell  Mr.  Kennedy  to  dance  with  you  ?  I  see  I  must  lecture 
you;  but  that  will  do  at  home — for  the  present  I  must  en- 
lighten you.  Do  you  know  with  whom  you  danced  when  we 
came  in  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  I  suppose  aunt  does,  for  she  and  that  gentleman 
have  been  talking  about  capital  and  social  progress  ever  so 
lono;." 

"  The  very  thing  Well,  my  dear,  you  have  been  dancing 
with  your  future  husband,  Count  Andre  de  Eenneville,  a  young 


sybil's  second  love.  133 

nobleman  of  very  ancient  birth,  and  very  small  means,  -who 
is  much  smitten  with  Miss  Kennedy's  charms  of  purse  and 
person. 

Miss  Kennedy's  face  expressed  so  much  amazement,  that  the 
fair  Blanche  had  something  ado  not  to  laugh  outright.  How- 
ever, she  did  refrain,  and  resumed, 

"  It  is  so,  I  know  it ;  and  what  is  more,  every  one  in  this 
room  knows  it  save  you  and  your  father,  who  is  as  wisely  and 
as  profoundly  ignorant  as  your  wise  self.  I  dare  say  Miss  Glyn 
would  not  thank  me  for  telling  you,  but  I  don't  care — not  I. 
You  must  know  it;  and  another  time,  my  dear  girl,  do  not 
wear  blue." 

Sybil  turned  red  and  pale  alternately. 

"Well,  what  are  you  frightening  yourself  about  ?  "  asked 
Blanche  ;  "  is  the  prospect  before  you  so  dreadful  ?  I  know  all 
about  him,  for  my  partners  kindly  gave  me  the  particulars,  and 
by  their  jealousy  of  him,  enlightened  me  more  than  if  they  had 
praised  him  ever  so  much.  Talk  of  women  being  envious — 
my  dear,  the  men  surpass  us  in  that,  as  they  do  in  every  thing. 
Well,  I  learned  this,  that  there  is  not  a  stain  on  this  noble 
count's  character,  that  he  is  terribly  poor,  that  he  must  marry 
a  rich  wife,  and  that  he  has  declared  he  will  not  marry  a  plain 
one  :  beauty  he  must  have.  So  thinking  you  rich  and  hand- 
some enough  to  be  made  a  countess  of,  he  has  spoken  to  Ma- 
dame de  Lonville,  who  has  spoken  to  your  aunt,  who  has 
spoken  to  no  one,  and  who  is  now  coming  toward  us  with  his 
countship,  no  doubt  to  ask  you  to  honor  him  with  your  hand 
in  the  next  quadrille.  And  there  is  my  partner  looking  for  me 
in  sore  distress,  so  good-by  to  you." 

She  moved  away  as  Miss  Glyn  came  up  with  the  Count  de 
Renneville. 

"  You  may  dance  now,  my  dear,"  graciously  said  Miss 
Glyn,  thus  intimating  that  if  Sybil  had  not  danced,  it  was  by 
no  means  for  want  of  a  partner,  but  because  her  aunt  had  pro- 
hibited her  from  doing  so.  The  count  said  a  few  words,  which 
Sybil  did  not  hear,  for  there  was  a  rushing  sound  in  her  ears, 
but  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  led  her  away ;  and  as  they 
moved  through  the  crowd,  Sybil  could  sec  that  more  than  one 
scrutinizing  eye  was  fastened  upon  them. 

The  attention  she  had  denied  him  in  the  early  part  of  the 
evening,  Sybil  now  bestowed  on  her  partner.  And  so  this 
was  Andre  "de  Renneville,  the  hero  of  Denise's  admiration  ;  the 


134  Sybil's  second  love 

poor  and  proud  gentleman  who  bad  been  conquered  in  the  bat- 
tle of  life.  She  saw  him,  as  girls  see,  without  looking  at  him. 
He  was  a  pale,  handsome  man,  fair,  with  grave  eyes,  and  a  seri- 
ous lip.  There  was  power,  tempered  by  sadness,  in  his  face. 
Her  heart  beat  with  pity  and  emotion  as  she  remembered  what 
his  trials  had  been.  And  had  he  fixed  upon  her  to  retrieve  the 
decayed  fortunes  of  his  house,  and  was  she  perhaps  destined  to 
give  new  lustre  to  that  fallen  name  ?  She  scanned  him  without 
embarrassment  or  shame,  without  undue  freedom  but  with  the 
frank  simplicity  that  was  in  her  nature.  Their  eyes  met :  in 
hers  he  could  read  "  sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet."  In  his 
Sybil  found  a  respectful  admiration,  which  agreed  with  his 
manner,  courteous  and  refined,  and  wholly  free  from  any  servile 
desire  of  pleasing  the  wealthy  girl.  Sybil  felt,-as  she  listened 
to  him — and  he  talked  well,  though  he  was  not  a  prolix  talker 
— that  she  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  nobly-born  gentleman,  re- 
fined and  well-bred,  and  worthy  of  the  happy  destiny  Fate  de- 
nied him.  Then  came  the  insidious  question  whispering  at  her 
heart :  "  Shall  you  be  the  one  ? — are  you  destined  to  redeem 
the  Renneville  race  ? " 

By  the  time  M.  de  Renneville  led  Sybil  back  to  her  aunt, 
the  young  girl's  mind  was  equal  to  answering  the  question  put 
to  her  by  that  lady. 

"  Sybil,"  she  said,  very  gravely,  "  do  you  know  the  gentle- 
man who  has  just  left  you  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Sybil,  in  a  low,  calm  tone,  "  he  is  Count  de 
Renneville." 

Her  manner  struck  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Do  you  know  what  brought  him  here  this  evening  ? "  she 
asked. 

Sybil  bowed  her  dark  head  without  answering. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  him  ? "  asked  her  aunt. 

"  I  never  noticed  him  before  this  evening." 

"  My  dear,  I  do  not  ask  you  if  you  are  ready  to  say  yes  or 
no  ;  but  you  can  tell  me  this,  is  he  displeasing  to  you  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  Sybil,  in  the  same  calm,  low  tone  with  which 
she  had  first  spoken. 

Miss  Glyn  rose,  and  confiding  Sybil  to  Madame  de  Lonville, 
went  in  search  of  her  brother-in-law.  After  a  brief  conference 
with  him,  she  introduced  him  to  Count  de  Renneville.  Sybil, 
who  saw  all  this  from  afar,  felt  like  one  in  a  dream.  The  few 
quiet  words  she  had  spoken  had  done  this;  her  father  probably 


sybil's  second  love.  135 

had  some  previous  knowledge  of  Count  de  Eenneville,  and  had 
no  objection  to  seeing  his  daughter  a  countess ;  and  so  Count 
de  Renneville's  visits  were  sanctioned — she  felt  sure  of  it.  She 
wondered  whether,  on  seeing  him  nearer,  she  would  like  him  ; 
whether  that  man  of  whom  she  knew  nothing,  an  hour  before, 
would  really  be  that  momentous  being — her  future  husband  ? 
She  looked  at  him  and  at  his  mother,  a  cold,  haughty  woman, 
with  a  sort  of  awe.  Would  they  ever  like  her,  the  little  ple- 
beian, and  really  forgive  her  her  obscure  birth  ?  She  felt  half- 
frightened  of  them  both,  and  half-sorry,  too,  that  she  had  not 
at  "once  put  a  stop  to  the  matter.  But  it  was  too  late  now  ; 
the  few  words  she  had  spoken  had  so  far  bound  her,  that  she 
must  give  Count  de  Renneville  a  trial. 

"  Well,  Pussy,  you  are  very  demure  !  "  said  her  father,  gay!  v. 

She  gave  a  little  start  on  perceiving  him  by  her  side,  for  she 
had  not  seen  or  heard  him  coming. 

"  Are  you  ready,  and  is  your  peerless  friend  ready  ? "  asked 
Mr.  Kennedy.     "  The  place  is  thinning." 

So  it  was.  The  heated  room  was  growing  cool,  and  you 
could  see  now  the  dust  on  the  floor  which  the  dancers'  feet  no 
longer  hid.  Count  de  Renneville  and  his  mother  still  lingered 
among  the  guests,  no  doubt  to  see  them  off.  Madame  de  Lon- 
ville  rose  abruptly  and  joined  them.  Mechanically  Sybil  rose 
too,  and  took  her  father's  arm.  She  looked  round  for  Blanche, 
and  saw  her  coming,  escorted  by  one  of  her  partners ;  the 
count  stood  by  Miss"  Glyn's  side,  and  walked  with  her  down- 
stairs to  the  carriage.  Mr.  Kennedy  entered  it  last ;  from  the 
corner  where  she  hid  herself,  Sybil  could  hear  him  saying : 

"  I  trust  you  will  find  your  way  to  Saint  Vincent  one  of 
these  days  ?" 

The  answer,  though  slowly  uttered,  came  ready  and  clear: 

"  I  shall  be  too  happy  to  do  so." 

Mr.  Kennedy  entered  the  carriage,  which  rolled  away  on 
the  stony  road.  Not  one  word  did  Sybil  utter  all  the  way 
home  ;  she  had  never  felt  so  grave  or  so  thoughtful  in  her  life 
before;  she  must  either  accept  or  reject  this  man,  and  either 
seemed  formidable  to  little  Sybil's  inexperience.  So  every  one 
else  talked,  but  she  was  silent ;  their  mirth,  their  laughter,  in 
which  even  Miss  Glyn  joined,  seemed  amazing  to  Sybil  with 
her  mind  full  of  this  one  thing.  It  was  a  relief  when  she 
reached  home  and  got  to  her  own  room,  and  for  once  she  would 
rather  that  Blanche  had  not  followed  her  there. 


136  Sybil's  second  love. 

"  Well,"  said  that  gay  young  ladv,  "  is  it  to  be  or  not  to  be, 
Sybil  ? " 

Sybil  shook  her  head  and  was  silent. 

"Silence  means  consent.  Well,  you  will  make  a  pretty 
countess,"  resumed  Miss  Cains  admiringly  ;  "  only,  for  goodness' 
sake,  do  not  wear  blue  any  more,  child  !  " 

"  Well,  but  you  cannot  wear  pink,"  argued  Sybil,  trying  to 
rouse  herself  up. 

"  No,  child,  and  I  do  not  mean  to  wear  it  either — pink  kills 
me  ;  but  you  need  not  wear  blue  for  that.  Well,  it  was  a  de- 
lightful party,"  she  added,  reclining  back  in  Sybil's  little  arm- 
chair. "  I  say,  how  savage  all  these  French  girls  looked  !  I 
suppose  I  gave  them  a  new  Waterloo— on  their  own  ground, 
too.     I  enjoyed  it  amazingly  !  " 

Her  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  triumph  ;  she  looked  so  hand- 
some that  Sybil  was  dazzled.  She  wondered,  too,  if  the  count 
would  not  have  preferred  her  had  she  been  rich.  Such  thoughts 
did  not  seem  to  trouble  Blanche  Cains.  If  she  was  not  the 
perfect  being  Sybil  dreamed  her  to  be,  from  one  fault  she  was 
free — she  knew  not  envy.  She  liked  pleasure,  wealth,  luxury, 
and  all  the  joys  of  life ;  but  though  she  was  penniless,  she  was 
too  proud  not  to  scorn  that  mean  repining  after  another's  good 
which  is  the  test  of  small  natures.  So  she  went  on,  gayly  ex- 
ulting in  her  triumph,  not  caring  to  remember  that  if  she  had 
been  the  belle  of  the  night,  she  had  also  been  the  poorest  girl 
present ;  now  and  then  digressing  from  this  theme  to  teaze 
Sybil  concerning  her  significant  silence,  or  to  warn  her  against 
blue,  and  finally  bidding  her  good-night  with  a  saucy  "  I  have 
broken  the  cabal,  have  I  not,  little  countess  ? " 

Sybil  undressed,  and  said  her  prayers,  and  went  to  bed,  but 
could  not  sleep — before  her  eyes  ever  floated  the  grave  sad  lace 
of  Count  de  Renneville,  and  when  she  slumbered  at  length  it  was 
with  her  still.  Once  it  grew  so  vivid  that  she  awoke  with  a 
start,  and  sat  up  in  bed,  looking  at  her  moonlit  window  and  half 
dreaming,  "  Was  it  to  be  ?  "  Did  the  mysterious  future  hold 
that  tale  within  its  pages,  or  would  it  dissolve  like  a  fantastic 
vision,  and  be  seen  no  more  ? 

"God  knows,"  thought  Sybil,  with  a  troubled  heart;  "  but 
oh  !  how  I  wish  I  did  know  !  " 


sybil's  second  love. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


137 


The  thoughts  which  had  filled  Sybil's  mind  as  she  fell  asleep 
were  also  uppermost  with  every  person  whom  she  saw  next 
morning. 

"  Well,  little  countess,"  gayly  said  Miss  Cains,  as  they  met 
on  the  staircase. 

Sybil  raised  a  threatening  forefinger,  then  looked  at  her 
friend  with  some  surprise. 

"  You  have  been  out  walking  ? "  she  said. 

"  I  just  had  a  look  at  the  garden." 

"I  thought  you  had  been  by  the  sea — look!"  and  she 
showed  her  a  bunch  of  tangled  seaweed  which  clung  to  her 
cloak. 

"  "Well,  I  have  been  by  the  sea,"  a  little  shortly  replied  Miss 
Cains.  "  I  had  a  bad  headache,  and  thought  the  air  would  do 
me  good,  so  I  walked  along  the  beach." 

"  But  the  tide  is  in,  said  Sybil ;  "  you  could  not  find  room 
on  the  beach  between  cliff  and  sea,  could  you  ? " 

"  Now,  little  countess,  you  want  to  lead  me  oft*  my  topic," 
gayly  replied  Miss  Cains ;  "  but  whether  I  have  been  by  the 
beach,  or  above  it  like  a  bird,  or  under  it  like  a  fish — " 

"  Oh !  I  know  where  you  have  been  now,"  interrupted 
Sybil ;  "  you  have  been  to  my  haunt.  The  westerly  wind  often 
sweeps  the  seaweed  up  there ;  and  look,  this  bunch  of  weed  has 
been  many  a  day  out  of  the  sea ;  it  is  dry  and  withered.  But 
why  did  you  want  to  mystify  me,  Blanche  ? " 

"You  dear  little  goose,  you  mystify  yourself,  not  I.  Did 
you  dream  of  him  ?  " 

Sybil  blushed,  for  her  father  now  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips. 

"  Well,  little  countess,"  he  said,  using  the  very  words  of 
Blanche  Cains,  "  how  are  you  this  morning?  " 

"  I  am  very  well,  but  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  or  will  be  a 
little  countess,"  said  Sybil  gravely. 

Her  father  laughed,  and  quite  as  gravely  replied, 

"  No  more  am  I  sure  that  I  will  let  you  be  one,  Pussy." 

To  say  the  truth,  Mr.  Kennedy  was  the  last  man  who  would 
bestow  his  daughter  on  a  penniless  count,  and  of  mere  affection 
for  that  title.  But  then  Mr.  Kennedy,  as  a  rule,  liked  what  the 
world  liked ;  and  if  the  world  thought  it  a  good  thing  for  Sybil 


138  sybil's  second  love. 

to  wear  a  coronet,  and  for  her  father  to  he  so  closely  connected 
■with  a  gentleman  of  ancient  birth  and  unblemished  character, 
Mr.  Kennedy  was  just  the  man  to  think  so  too.  He  had  had 
other  views  for  her,  but  having  received  a  check  where  he  least 
expected  one,  he  was  sufficiently  pleased  that  his  daughter  and 
himself  should  have  this  chance,  if  it  was  a  good  one,  within 
their  grasp  ;  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  that  he 
hailed  her  as  "little  countess." 

"  You  will  find  your  aunt  in  the  dining-room,"  he  continued. 
"  She  wants  to  speak  to  you,  and  is  quite  amazed  you  should  be 
so  late  this  morning." 

Miss  Glyn  was,  indeed,  sufficiently  impatient  to  have  a  sen- 
sible talk  with  her  niece,  and  she  saw  her  enter  the  dining-room 
with  evident  satisfaction. 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  said,  "  how  could  you  be  so  late  on 
such  a  morning  ?      The  count  will  be  coming,  of  course,  to  in 
quire  how  we  have  spent  the  night." 

"  Not  this  morning,  aunt,"  said  Sybil.  "  Besides,  even  if 
he  should  come,  I  shall  not  see  him." 

"  Not  see  him  '  " 

"  Why,  aunt,  I  am  not  to  take  his  visit  to  myself,  am  I  ? " 

"  Well — no — you  are  right,  Sybil,  and  I  am  glad  to  find  you 
so  discreet.  There  is  no  hurry — none  whatever.  I  must  ascer- 
tain how  far  that  young  man  is  equal  to  the  management  of 
capital — under  my  directions,  of  course — before  I  can  recom- 
mend you  to  think  of  him  at  all.  You  know  my  meaning, 
Sybil.  I  would  never  have  you  make  a  mercenary  marriage  ; 
but  neither  would  I  have  you  contract  an  imprudent  one.  Now, 
the  man  who  cannot  manage  capital — who  is  not  equal  to 
capital — " 

Here  Miss  Glyn's  exordium  came  to  an  abrupt  close.     Demse 
had  opened  the  door,  and  exclaimed  in  tones  full  of  dismay — 

"  The  cow  kicked  the  pail  of  milk,  and  there's  not  a  drop  left ! " 

"  Not  a  drop  ? "  said  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Not  a  drop." 

This  domestic  misfortune  completely  banished  the  count 
from  Miss  Glyn's  mind  for  the  time  being ;  and  as  she  was  one  of 
those  notable  housekeepers  who  think  nothing  well  done  unless 
they  see  it  done,  she  abruptly  left  the  room,  and  proceeded  at 
once  to  the  scene  of  the  calamity.  She  was  scarcely  gone  when 
Uncle  Edward  opened  the  door  and  entered.  Sybil  went  up  to 
him  in  all  friendliness. 


Sybil's  second  love.  139 

"Good-morning,  uncle,"  she  said  gayly.  "The  cabal  is 
broken,  and  Blanche  was  the  queen  of  the  night." 

"  Pray  how  did  Miss  Cains  like  that  ?  "  rather  dryly  inquired 
Uncle  Edward,  sitting  down  in  Miss  Glyn's  vacant  chair. 

"  Whv,  very  well,  of  course,"  jealously  replied  Sybil. 
"  What  grirl  would  dislike  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  you  good,  candid,  little  thing,  no  girl  would. 
It  is  glory,  fame,  honor,  and  more,  if  more  could  be,  to  you  all. 
So  let  it  be.     But  I  thought  you  had  more  to  tell  me,  Sybil  ? " 

He  spoke  so  gravely,  he  looked  at  her  so  keenly,  that  the 
blood  rushed  up  to  Sybil's  face,  and  covered  it  with  a  deep  rosy 
blush.     How  could  he  know  it — so  soon,  too! 

"  Who  told  you  ?  "  she  asked  a  little  impetuously ;  "  you, 
too,  have  got  seaweed  about  you.     Was  it  Blanche  ?  " 

Her  uncle  looked  at  her  in  some  amazement.  Her  eyes 
flashed;  she  was  so  excited  that  she  shook  again  and  trembled. 

"  You  are  a  strange  girl,"  he  replied,  very  gravely.  "  I  met 
Miss  Cains  this  morning  down  by  the  Pines ;  but  surely  you  do 
not  suppose  this  was  the  subject  of  our  conversation.  As  for 
the  seaweed,"  he  added,  shaking  his  hair,  whence  it  fell  on  the 
floor,  "  what  has  it  to  do  with  my  question,  Sybil  ?  " 

Sybil  was  silent. 

"And  is  it  really  so?"  he  resumed.  "And  yet  you  once 
promised  me  to  enter  into  no  such  engagement  without  my 
knowledge,  Sybil." 

"  Uncle,  there  is  no  en^a^ement." 

"  My  dear,  when  a  girl  allows  such  a  man  as  Count  de 
Renneville  to  seek  her  society,  his  avowed  purpose  being  mar- 
riage, she  gives  him,  or  rather  she  gives  her  future  destiny,  a 
pledge  she  rarely  breaks." 

Sybil  looked,  as  she  felt,  rather  dismayed. 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  said  quickly — "I  trust  not." 

Then  seeing  how  grave  and  silent  he  looked,  she  added, 
hesitatingly — "Do  you  know  him,  uncle  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  have  had  dealings  with  him  on  your  fathers  behalf." 

Sybil  looked  at  him  earnestly  ;  but  he  did  not  seem  disposed 
to  be  communicative.     She  took  courage  to  question. 

"  Dear  uncle,"  she  entreated,  "  do  you  know  anv  harm  of 
him  ? " 

"  My  dear,  I  do  not.  I  had  dealings  with  him,  as  I  tell  y<>  1, 
and  found  him  gentlemanlike,  cool,  and  collected.  I  need  not 
tell  you  he  is  handsome,  and  has  pleasing  manners — more  I 
know  not." 


140  sybil's  second  love. 

"  And  yet,  uncle,  you  seem  to  disapprove." 

"  I  do.  I  cannot  imagine  why  your  friends  are  in  so  great 
a  hurry  to  see  you  married,  and  a  countess." 

"  I  do  not  care  about  that,  uncle." 

"And  what  else  is  there  to  care  about?  Are  there  not 
scores  of  men  equal  to  that  one  ?" 

"  Perhaps  they  will  not  care  for  me,  uncle." 

"  If  you  give  them  time,  they  will.  I'll  be  bound  you  were 
the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room  last  night." 

"  No,  uncle,  it  was  Blanche." 

"  Oh,  she  is  handsome."  Then  there  was  a  pause,  after 
which  he  resumed,  "And  so  it  is  to  be  the  count,  Sybil?" 

"  Dear  uncle,"  said  Sybil  gently,  "  I  really  have  not  made  up 
my  mind." 

Uncle  Edward  gave  his  tawny  locks  an  impatient  toss,  and 
he  echoed  in  a  mimicking  tone : 

"Dear  niece,  you  will  really  make  up  your  mind,  or  his 
countship  will  make  it  up  for  you.  He  has  so  far  pleased  you, 
that  you  have  allowed  him  to  come;  and  is  it  credible  that, 
having  no  other  purpose  in  view  than  to  follow  up  this  favorable 
impression,  he  will  not  succeed  ?  Why  you  are  all  so  much 
charmed  with  him,  I  cannot  tell.  He  is  handsome,  but  so  are 
others — gentlemanlike,  so  are  others — pleasing,  so  are  others  ; 
of  looking  further  or  deeper,  I  of  course  acquit  you." 

There  was  so  much  irony  in  his  tone,  that  Sybil  felt  hurt, 
too  much  hurt,  indeed,  to  follow  up  the  argument.  'It  was  plain 
to  her  that  her  uncle  was  prejudiced  against  her  suitor,  though 
he  could  give  no  valid  reason  for  the  feeling.  So  turning  away 
from  him,  she  went  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  sun- 
shine of  morning  reposed  on  the  landscape.  Far  off  she  could 
see  aline  of  leafy  trees  on  the  blue  sky,  and  rising  from  among 
them  the  conical  turrets  and  slate  roofs  of  the  old  manor.  There 
had  dwelt,  in  days  of  old,  that  bold  Raymond,  who  waged 
war  against  sovereigns,  who  was  great  as  a  prince,  and  richer 
than  many  princes.  He  little  thought  the  day  would  come 
when  his  descendant  would  woo  a  strange  girl  for  her  money. 
"  For  if  I  were  poor,  he  would  not  think  of  me,"  said  Sybil  to 
herself.  "  Strange  that  none  of  them  should  think  of  that  ob- 
jection! I  suppose  his  title  and  my  money  make  us  quits — 
and  then,  after  all,  the  whole  world  knows  he  would  not  marry 
his  cousin,  who  was  richer  than  I  am."  There  was  something 
in  that   thought   which  proved  infinitely   soothing   to   Sybil's 


sybil's  second  love.  141 

pride.  It  agreed  with  an  impression  that  she  had  received  from 
Count  de  Renneville's  manner  on  the  preceding  evening,  that 
he  had  chosen  her.  His  looks,  his  tones  had  hoth  told  her  the 
same  story,  and  Sybil's  was  not  the  age  when  such  a  tale  is 
doubted.  There  were  plenty  of  rich  girls  about  Saint  Vincent ; 
but  for  all  that,  she  was  the  one  he  had  selected,  and  on  whose 
decree  he  was  willing  to  stake  the  happiness  and  the  fortunes  of 
his  future.  Indeed,  her  uncle  himself,  averse  to  this  match  as 
he  was,  did  not  doubt  the  count's  sincerity.  Why,  then,  should 
she? 

"  There  is  no  help  for  it,"  here  said  Miss  Glyn's  voice ;  "  we 
must  do  without  milk  this  morning." 

Thus  called  out  of  her  dreaming,  Sybil  came  down  once 
more  to  the  realities  of  life,  condoled  with  her  aunt,  and  gave 
her  uncle  a  shy  look.  His  brows  were  knit,  and  his  counte- 
nance was  so  severe  and  displeased,  that  Sybil  turned  her  look 
away.  What  had  she  done,  that  he  should  take  it  so  much 
amiss ;  and,  after  all,  what  was  it  to  him  if  she  married  Count 
de  Renneville,  or  not  ?  His  cold  and  altered  manner  gave  her 
further  tokens  of  his  displeasure  during  breakfast-time.  He  did 
not  look  at  her,  or  if  he  did  his  eyes  did  not  seem  to  see  her ; 
he  did  not  address  her  once.  He  talked  with  her  father  of  a 
journey  he  was  going  to  take ;  but  not  once  did  he  attempt  to 
include  her  in  his  conversation,  and  when  she  spoke  he  was 
silent.     Sybil  felt  she  was  in  disgrace. 

"  What  is  the  matter  between  your  uncle  and  you  ?  "  bluntly 
asked  Miss  Cains,  as  they  sat  alone  that  evening  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  I  believe  he  does  not  like  all  this  about  Count  de  Renne- 
ville." 

"  And  what  is  it  to  him  ? "  tartly  asked  Blanche. 

"  He  thinks  I  an>  too  young.  Besides,  I  know  I  vexed  him 
this  morning." 

"  Vexed  Greeneyes ! — impossible." 

"  Yes,  I  did,  and  I  am  afraid  you  did  too,  Blanche,  when  you 
and  he  met  at  the  pine-trees." 

For  a  moment  Miss  Cains  stood  irresolute,  as  if  not  knowing 
how  to  take  Sybil's  remark.  She  looked  at  her  surprised,  and 
doubting,  and  at  length  said:  "We  scarcely  spoke — how  could 
I  vex  him  ? " 

"Blanche,  you  scorn  him — and  I  fear  he  sees  it.  C'b! 
Blanche,  Blanche/'  she  added,  fondly  clasping  her  arms  around 


142  Sybil's  second  love. 

licr,  "  what  a  pity  it  cannot  be  !  I  did  so  hope  you  would  like 
each  other,  and  marry." 

"  Nonsense  !     To  begin  with,  we  cannot  like  each  other." 

"  Nowr  Blanche,  you  are  too  scornful.  Any  one  can  see  he 
admires  you,  but — " 

"  Has  he  told  you  so  ?  "  interrupted  Miss  Cains  very  coldly. 

"  Xo,  Blanche,  but  I  have  eyes,  and  I  could  see  how  he 
looked  at  you — when  you  came — whereas  you — oh  !  you  are 
too  bad,  there  is  disdain  in  every  one  of  your  glances." 

Miss  Cains  laughed. 

"  Do  you  know  what  he  and  I  spoke  of  this  morning  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  No — oh  !  do  tell  me,  Blanche,  do." 

"  We  talked  of  Ulysses  and  the  Sirens.  Was  not  that  a 
delightful  subject  of  conversation  on  a  cool  morning  like  this  ? 
I  fairly  wished  him  in  the  sea.  Dreadful  man  ! — he  gave  me 
the  shivers." 

Sybil  laughed. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  a  mermaid,"  she  said,  gayty,  "  to  live 
in  the  blue  seas  and  green  grottos,  and  comb  my  hair  and  sing. 
I  should  like  it  of  all  things,  Blanche." 

Miss  Cains  yawned. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  languidly,  "  I  should  not  mind  being  a 
mermaid  for  a  few  hours — nay,  for  a  few  days — but  in  very 
warm  weather,  of  course.  It  always  exasperates  me  to  look  at 
the  sea,  and  to  think  she  is  full  of  treasures — greedy  wretch ! 
— which  would  make  me  happy,  and  are  of  no  use  to  her. 
Think  of  the  pearls,  and  the  coral,  and  the  coined  gold  she 
keeps,  Sybil !  Oh !  I  should  like  to  dive  and  bring  up, 
amazingly." 

"  Oh  !  but  T  would  not  be  a  mermaid  for  any  thing,"  cried 
Sybil,  with  sudden  dismay.  "  I  had  forgotten  that  she  is  half 
a  fish — oh !  no,  that  would  never  do." 

"  I  should  not  mind  that  a  bit,"  coolly  said  Miss  Cains — 
"never  mind  about  being  half  a  fish  for  a  time,  when  the  prize 
is  so  great." 

"  But  I  do  mind,"  retorted  Sybil,  speaking  in  so  sharp  and 
loud  a  key,  that  Miss  Glyn,  who  was  then  entering  the  room, 
asked  uneasily,  "  What  was  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Sybil  objects  to  being  a  mermaid,"  gravely  replied  Miss 
Cains. 

"  My  dear,  what  wild  talk ! "  remarked  Miss  Glyn,  with 
some  severity. 


sybil's  second  love.  143 

"  Well,  I  have  read  in  the  Koran  that  when  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  went  to  visit  Solomon — " 

"  Sybil,  are  you  crazy  ?  "  interrupted  Miss  Glyn,  almost  an- 
grily ;  "  why,  what  would  any  one  think  who  heard  you  talk 
of  the  Koran  in  that  strange  way  ?  " 

Sybil  only  laughed  saucily,  for  she  knew  that  "  any  one  " 
meant  Count  de  Renneville.  But  even  as  she  laughed,  she  sud- 
denly remembered  that  she  had  not  seen  her  uncle  since  din- 
ner-time. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  addressing  her  father,  who  had  entered 
the  room  with  Miss  Glyn,  "  where  is  uncle,  please  ? " 

"  My  dear,  he  is  gone." 

"  For  a  long  time  ?  " 

"  For  a  few  weeks." 

Svbil  felt  sobered  at  once.  Why  had  her  uncle  left  without 
bidding  her  good-by  ? — why  had  he  left  at  all  ?  Sybil  looked 
at  her  aunt,  then  at  Blanche,  and  finally  at  her  father ;  but  no 
one  else  seemed  to  take  any  interest  in  this  matter.  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy's brother  was  gone,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 

The  young  are  true.  Their  affections  may  not  lie  deep,  but 
there  is  a  fervor  in  them  which  redeems  them  from  the  reproach 
of  shallowness.  Sybil  felt  unhappy  when  she  went  up  to  her 
room  that  evening.  She  was  very  sorry  for  the  friend  who  had 
left,  and  she  feared  he  had  left  for  the  sake  of  the  lover  who 
was  coming.  Why  should  the  count  be  unacceptable  to  her 
uncle  ?  But  perhaps  the  count  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  de- 
parture. Perhaps  some  letter  had  suddenly  called  him  away. 
"  Denise  will  tell  me,"  thought  Sybil.  She  at  once  proceeded 
to  the  room  of  that  discreet  handmaiden,  whom  she  found  fast 
asleep,  with  her  unsnuffed  candle  flaring  beside  her.  With 
some  asperity,  Sybil  asked  Denise,  who  awoke  with  a  guilty 
start,  if  she  wanted  to  set  the  house  on  fire. 

"  God  forbid  ! "  said  Denise  ;  "  it  was  the  burning  of  the 
family  papers  that  first  brought  the  Rennevilles  down — gam- 
bling did  the  rest." 

Sybil  forgot  to  chide ;  she  forgot  even  that  she  had  come  to 
question  Denise  concerning  her  uncle's  departure.  She  stood 
looking  at  the  girl's  full  round  face  and  dull  blue  eyes,  hesita- 
ting whether  or  not  to  make  Denise  pursue  a  topic  on  which 
the  poor  girl  was  always  eloquent.  She  had  been  a  servant  in 
the  Renneville  family,  and  though  years  had  passed  since  then, 
the  old  worship  was  still  strong  in  her  heart. 


144  Sybil's  second  love. 

"  And  so  it  was  his  father's  gambling,"  at  length  said  Sybil, 
"  that  brought  him  down  so  low,  and  makes  him  loot  so  sad  ?  " 

"  Oh !  he  has  had  plenty  of  other  troubles,"  said  Denise, 
briskly  ;    "  his  poor  cousin,  you  know,  who  married  another — " 

"  I  thought  she  was  rich,"  said  Sybil,  reddening. 

"  Oh  !  that  was  the  plain  one — the  pretty  one  was  poor. 
He  never  seemed  to  care  about  her,  but  he  fainted  when  he 
heard  she  was  married." 

"  Who  is  she  ? — where  is  she,  Denise  ? " 

"  Oh  !  she  is  dead,  and  her  husband  is  married  again,  and 
has  a  family  of  children." 

"  I  suppose  he  grieves  for  her  still  ? "  remarked  Sybil. 

She  tried  to  speak  sympathetically,  but  she  was  not  much 
pleased  to  find  she  had  had  a  predecessor. 

"  La  ! — why  should  he  ?  "  innocently  said  Denise,  "  when 
her  own  husband  is  comforted.  Besides,  he  always  knew  he 
could  not  marry  her." 

Oh !  what  bitter  and  hard  lessons  poverty  and  pride  had 
taught  this  man  !  What  self-denial  and  self-subjection  had  he 
not  practised  to  reach  his  thirtieth  year  unsullied  in  honor ! 
Sybil  stood  lost  in  thought,  then  suddenly  she  gave  a  little  start. 

"  What  step  is  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  believe  it  is  Monsieur  Edouard  going  down,"  replied  De- 
nise, calmly. 

Monsieur  Edouard  was  the  name  by  which  Mr.  Kennedy's 
brother  was  known  in  Saint  Vincent. 

"  Is  he  not  gone  ?  "  cried  Sybil. 

Denise  did  not  know;  she  had  seen  Monsieur  Edouard  an 
hour  ago. 

"  He  is  going  to  the  library,  and  I  have  the  key,"  quickly 
said  Sybil — "  good-night,  Denise." 

Denise  volunteered  to  take  down  the  key,  but  ere  her  speech 
was  half  over  Sybil  was  down  the  stairs.  She  found  her  uncle 
at  the  library  door,  in  the  act  of  turning  away,  with  a  light  in 
his  hand.  Sybil  silently  took  out  her  key,  and  showed  it  him. 
Half  smiling,  he  held  out  his  hand,  but  Sybil  put  her  hands  be- 
hind her  back,  and  shook  her  head  demurely. 

"  No,  uncle,"  she  said  ;  "  you  must  pay  toll.     I  thought  you 


were  srone." 


"I  forgot  some  papers,  and  came  back  for  them." 
"  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  to  bid  me  good-by,  uncle,  and 
came  back  for  that." 


Sybil's  second  love.  145 

"  Sybil,  give  me  the  key,  if  you  please.  I  must  be  gone  by 
five  o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 

"  The  library  is  mine,"  obstinately  replied  Sybil ;  "  papa 
made  it  over  to  me,  and  I  give  or  withhold  the  key  at  my 
pleasure." 

"  I  can  do  without  it,"  he  said,  turning  away  ;  "  it  is  only 
sitting  up  and  rewriting  a  few  letters,  Sybil." 

"  Take  it,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice ;  but  though  her  face 
was  averted,  her  uncle  saw  tears  in  her  eyes.  He  took  the  key 
from  her  extended  hand,  and  opened  the  library  door;  but  sud- 
denly pausing  in  the  act,  he  said, 

"  I  shall  want  you,  Sybil.  You  must  find  Johnson  for  me, 
if  you  please." 

Sybil's  face  brigbtened ;  she  snatched  tbe  light  from  bis 
hand,  and  darted  on  before  him.  In  a  second  she  was  up  the 
steps,  and  was  reaching  down  the  heavy  quarto,  when  he  chi- 
dingly  came  to  ber  assistance. 

"  Why,  the  weight  of  the  surly  old  lexicographer  is 
enough  to  make  you  fall,  Sybil,"  he  said,  taking  it  from 
ber. 

"  Oh  !  but  I  am  stronger  than  you  think,"  jealously  replied 
Sybil,  reluctantly  surrendering  the  volume  ;  "  but  the  truth  is, 
you  do  not  want  me  to  help  you." 

"  Now,  Sybil,  do  not  talk  nonsense." 

"  Well,  but  why  did  you  go  away  without  bidding  me 
good-by  ? "  she  asked,  sitting  down  for  an  explanation ;  "  but 
you  need  not  tell  me,"  she  resumed,  "  it  is  all  about  Count  de 
Itenneville." 

"  No,  Sybil,  it  is  not ;  it  is  all  about  you." 

"  Uncle,  why  do  you  object  ?  " 

"  Sybil,  how  old  are  you  ?  " 

Sybil  blushed. 

"  I  am  very  young,  I  know." 

"  You  are,  indeed  ;  and  he  is  not.  I  grant  that  he  is  hon- 
orable and  good  ;  you  might  wait  and  do  better.  I  know  no 
harm  of  bim ;  but  how  has  be  reached  his  present  years  and 
found  no  other  issue  to  his  troubles  than  marriage  ?  Is  life 
shut  to  bim  ? — is  he  too  proud  to  fight  his  way  ? — can  he  not 
work  ? " 

"  His  motber  would  not  let  him." 

"He  is  a  good  son,"  replied  Uncle  Edward,  with  a  touch 
of  scorn. 

7 


146  sybil's  second  love. 

"  He  is,  uncle,"  warmly  said  Sybil ;  "  and  I  believe  that  ia 
good  security  for  bis  becoming  a  good  husband." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  try,  Sybil  ? " 

"  Indeed,  uncle,  I  do  not  know.  I  once  promised  you  to 
enter  into  no  engagement." 

"  I  release  you  from  tbat  promise,"  be  said  gravely.  "  Your 
fatber,  your  aunt,  like  tbe  match — " 

"  But  I  sbould  like  you  to  bke  it,  too,"  said  Sybil,  going  up 
to  bim  and  coaxingly  passing  ber  arm  within  bis,  "  and  not  to 
be  knitting  your  brows  in  tbat  grave  way,  Uncle  Edward." 

Uncle  Edward  laugbed.  His  look  softened,  bis  mouth 
relaxed. 

"  Tell  me  tbe  trutb,"  be  said,  looking  down  at  her,  "  do  you 
really  like  tbat  young  man  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,  uncle ;  but  I  may,  you  know." 

"  If  you  do,  be  happy,  be  very  happy,  Sybil  ;  and  if  ever 
you  want  a  friend,  come  to  me." 

"  Uncle,  you  speak  as  if  you  thought  I  should  not  be 
happy." 

"  I  have  no  right  to  do  so  ;  'tbe  fact  is,  I  am  not  just  to  tbat 
young  man.  I  am  jealous  of  bim,  Sybil.  No  mother  ever 
thought  another  woman  good  enough  for  her  son,  no  brother 
thinks  a  man  worthy  of  his  sister,  and  I  cannot  think  this 
pretty  count  good  enough  for  you.  Besides,  it  seems  such 
quick  work.     You  would  not  have  thought  of  him,  Sybil." 

"  No,  nor  of  any  man  who  did  not  ask  me,  uncle." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  that  is  woman's  nature  ;  so  even  let  it  be. 
And  now  good-night,  my  dear.  It  is  late,  and  I  have  a  few 
words  to  add  to  my  letters." 

Sybil  silently  went  and  fetched  the  ink-stand,  and  placed  it 
before  him.     He  sat  down  and  smiled. 

"What  a  good  little  thing  you  are,"  he  said,  resting  his 
elbow  on  the  table,  and  looking  kindly  at  her  ;  "  what  a  little, 
willing,  and  busy  handmaiden  you  are  ever  ready  to  make 
yourself  !     That  count  will  be  a  happy  man." 

Sybil  dropped  him  a  courtesy,  and  uttered  a  saucy  "  Perhaps 
be  will,  and  perhaps  he  will  not." 

"  That  is  bow  it  is,"  he  continued  ;  "  some  draw  the  great 
prizes,  and  others  blanks,  and  it  must  be  so  to  the  end  of  time." 

"  Poor  uncle  ! "  thought  Sybil,  looking  at  him  wistfully  ; 
"  what  a  pity  he  should  be  crossed  in  love  !  He  is  quite  young 
yet — not  older  than  tbe  count." 


sybil's  secoxd  love.  147 

"  Good-night,  my  dear,"  plainly  said  her  uncle,  dismissing 
her. 

"  Good-night,  uncle." 

"  And  good-by,  for  I  leave  early." 

"  And  when  do  you  come  back,  uncle  ?  " 

"  Not  till  you  have  become  a  countess,  my  dear." 

"  What !  "  cried  Sybil,  reddening,  "  you  will  not  come  back 
f  jr  my  wedding — if  I  do  marry  ?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not,"  he  curtly  answered. 

"  Then  you  hate  him  !  "  she  exclaimed,  dismayed. 

"  Not  at  all ;  but  -we  should  not  suit — that  is  the  truth." 

Tears  rushed  to  Sybil's  eyes. 

"  And  so,"  she  said,  "  if  I  marry,  I  must  lose  you  ?  " 

His  silence  implied  assent. 

"  Oh  !  uncle  ! "  she  said,  imploringly. 

"My  dear  child,  do  not  fret ;  but  it  cannot  be  helped. 

He  spoke  so  coldly,  that  Sybil  felt  chilled. 

"  Good-night,  uncle,"  she  said. 

"  Good-nigdit,  mv  dear." 

"  Good-bv,  uncle." 

"  Good-bv,  Svbil." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  and  pressed  it,  but  with- 
out much  cordiality.  Sybil's  heart  sank.  She  walked  slowly 
to  the  door  ;  before  she  reached  it  she  saw  that  her  uncle  had 
dipped  his  pen  in  ink,  and  was  writing. 

This  was  their  farewell.  Whose  was  the  blame  ?  Was  he 
too  exacting  ? — had  she  too  readily  dropped  the  old  friendship, 
though  not  caring  much  as  yet  for  the  new  love  ?  Sybil  did 
not  know,  but  she  felt  miserable.  As  she  reached  her  door, 
that  of  Blanche  Cains  opened,  and  that  young  lady  herself 
appeared  on  the  threshold,  dressed,  and  with  a  book  in  her 
hand. 

"  Why,  Mousey,  where  have  you  been  ? "  she  said,  coming 
out  toward  Sybil.  "  I  knocked  at  your  door  an  hour  ago  for 
the  second  volume  of  this  French  storv  of  vours,  and  the  bird 
was  asleep,  as  I  thought — but  no,  it  was  fiowu  ! " 

"  Uncle  was  below,  so  I  went  to  bid  him  good-by,"  list- 
lessly replied  Sybil. 

"  You  seem  none  the  better  for  the  ceremony,"  rejoined 
Miss  Cains.     "  Come  in." 

She  drew  her  into  her  own  room,  shut  the  door,  and  look- 
ing earnestly  at  Sybil,  said  very  softly, 


148  Sybil's  secoisd  love. 

"  Now  what  Las  Greeneyes  done  to  make  you  look  so  mis- 
erable?" 

"  Blanche,  he  is  going  away  because  of  the  count ;  and  if  I 
many  him  he  will  not  come  to  the  wedding,  and  I  do  think  it 
hard  to  have  but  one  uncle,  and  to  be  estranged  from  him." 

"  And  what  is  it  to  him  whom  you  marry  ? "  asked  Miss 
Cains,  her  lip  curling  with  scorn. 

"But  it  is,  or  ought  it  to  be,  something  to  him,"  jealously 
said  Sybil.  "  Is  he  not  my  uncle  ?  Only  since  he  cannot  find 
a  word  to  say  against  him,  why  does  he  object,  and  put  me  by? 
He  seemed  so  fond  of  me  once.  Even  this  evening  he  was 
quite  kind." 

The  handsome  Grecian  lip  of  Blanche  curled  again. 

"  Yes,  he  seemed !  "  she  said ;  "  but  his  kindness  ceases 
with  your  marriage.  Shall  I  tell  you  why?  He  wants  all 
your  affection — he  is  envious  of  that  share  which  can  never  be- 
long to  him.     His  is  not  a  generous  but  a  selfish  liking." 

"  No,  that  is  not  it,  Blanche,"  a  little  indignantly  replied 
Sybil,  "  for  if  ever  I  want  a  friend — if  ever  I  am  in  trouble! — I 
am  to  apply  to  him ;  but  I  was  very  fond  of  him,  and  I  believe 
he  is  a  little  jealous— indeed,  he  said  so." 

"  Oh  !  he  did,  did  he  ?  So  Greeneyes  can  be  jealous ;  but 
of  course  there  must  be  liking  for  jealousy — -that  stands  to 
reason." 

"  Blanche,  you  say  nothing  to  comfort  me." 

"  I  can't,"  a  little  drearily  said  Miss  Cains.  "  I  never  could 
understand  your  fondness  for  that  uncle.  It  is  not  habit,  for  he 
is  a  stranger." 

"But  he  is  my  father's  brother,"  interrupted  Sybil ;  "and 
so  good  and  so  kind,  Blanche :  he  laughs  at  me  a  little,  and 
he  chides  too,  but  I  like  it,  for  I  know  that  at  heart  he  likes  me ; 
and  when  he  is  indulgent  and  good-humored,  no  one  can  be 
pleasanter  than  Uncle  Edward." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  marry  him  ? "  sharply  asked  Miss  Cains. 

"  Marry  my  uncle  ? " 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure — I  forgot  the  relationship ;  but  do  you 
know,  Sybil,  I  fancy  you  like  him  a  great  deal  better  than  that 
poor  count." 

'  Why,  of  course  I  do  ! "  cried  Sybil.  "  Of  course  I  like 
my  uncle  better  than  the  count,  whom  I  have  only  seen  once, 
and  not  spoken  to  for  more  than  five  minutes.  Ycu  do  not 
suppose,  Blanche,  that  I  like  him  at  all?" 


sybil's  second  love.  119 

Miss  Cains  laughed. 

"Xo,  my  dear,"  she  said;  "but  you  -will  marry  him,  and 
care  very  little  for  Green  eyes  after  that ;  and  Green  eyes,  know- 
ing it,  is  not  pleased.  "We  are  all  a  little  selfish,  you  know,  and  I 
am  selfishly  keeping  you  up,  though  eleven  is  striking,  so  good- 
night." 

Thus  dismissed,  Sybil  left,  but  her  grief  returned  as  sh<5 
entered  her  own  room.  "  Blanche  means  well,"  she  thought, 
"  but  she  does  not  comfort  me  at  all  1 "  She  went  to  bed  feel- 
ing disconsolate,  and  she  cried  herself  to  sleep,  and  when  she 
awoke,  she  knew  her  uncle  was  gone.  Ah  !  if  she  had  known 
how  and  when  their  next  meeting  would  be  ! 


CHAPTER     XX. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  and  just  as  Miss  Glyn  was 
declaring  for  the  seventh  time  that  she  should  not  wonder  if  the 
count — she  already  dropped  his  name — wrould  not  call,  the 
count  himself  made  his  appearance.  But  by  what  magic  was  it 
that  Sybil,  who,  five  minutes  before  was  sitting  in  the  drawing- 
room,  had  vanished  from  that  apartment  when  the  count  en- 
tered it  ?  Miss  Glyn  looked  for  her,  and  reddened  with  vexa- 
tion, then  watching  for  a  moment,  when  the  young  man  and  her 
brother  were  fully  engaged,  she  bent  and  whispered  to  Blanche, 
';  Miss  Cains,  do  oblige  me  by  looking  for  that  wilful  girl !  ' 
Miss  Cains  bowed  assent,  and  silently  left  the  apartment. 
She  did  not  go  up  to  Sybil's  room,  she  had  watched  her  steal- 
ing down  to  the  garden,  and  there  she  now  sought  her.  The 
sun  was  hot  and  bright ;  the  lower  garden  was  not  large,  and 
standing  on  the  door-step,  Miss  Cains  ascertained  that  Sybil  was 
not  in  it  Sbe  had  probably  gone  up  to  the  upper  garden,  as  it 
was  called,  and  she  might  be  on  the  sea-shore  bv  this.  Blanche 
by  no  means  cared  to  get  overheated  or  sunburnt  by  looking  for 
her  so  far,  and  she  was  turning  back  into  the  house,  when  a  little 
low  laugh  above  her  head  made  her  look  up.  There  was  no 
open  window  from  which  that  laugh  could  have  proceeded, 
nothing  but  a  green  and  heavy-branched  elder-tree  which  grew 
near  the  house. 


150  Sybil's  second  love. 

"  Sybil,"  gravely  said  Miss  Cains,  "  I  do  believe  you  are  in 
that  tree." 

The  branches  parted,  and  Sybil  appeared,  half-seated,  half- 
lying  amidst  the  green  boughs. 

"  Come  up,"  she  said,  beckoning  ;  "  there  is  room  for  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  dryly  replied  Miss  Cains  ;  "  I  prefer  a  softer 
seat ;  besides,  I  am  rather  too  heavy,  and  not  meaning  to  make 
a  dryad  of  myself  this  morning,  I  did  not,  like  you,  put  on  a 
green  dress ;  moreover,  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  message — your 
aunt  wants  you  up-stairs." 

"  I  shall  not  leave  this  until  he  is  gone,"  replied  Sybil,  very 
deliberately. 

"  And  you  have  perched  yourself  up  here  to  watch  him  as 
he  passes  by? — for  of  course  he  will  take  the  short  cut  home." 

"  What  if  I  do  wish  to  see  him  and  not  be  seen  ? "  asked 
Sybil. 

"  Better  see  him,  and  be  seen,  my  dear." 

"  Blanche,  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  can  well  understand  that  Greeneyes  should  not 
like  him.     Construe  that  as  you  please." 

Sybil  changed  color,  and  looked  troubled.  Miss  Cains 
laughed. 

"  If  you  were  a  real  dryad,  and  had  just  heard  the  woodman 
saying,  'To-morrow  I  shall  fell  that  tree,'"  she  said,  "you 
could  not  look  more  dismayed  than  you  do.  Why,  child,  it  is 
only  saying  'No,'  if  you  do  not  like  him.  Come  and  look  at 
him  up-stairs.  You  will  not? — well,  then,  farewell,  I  must  be 
gone,  or  Miss  Glyn  will  say  I  am  keeping  you." 

She  reentered  the  house ;  and  Sybil,  releasing  the  boughs 
her  hand  had  held  back,  was  once  more  enclosed  within  her 
leafy  prison.  Often  had  she  sat  and  read  there  before  Uncle 
Edward's  coming,  and  once  or  twice  she  had  hid  from  him  in 
that  unsuspected  stronghold,  till,  detecting  her  one  day,  he 
pulled  the  branches  back  and  saw  her  mischievous  and  laughing 
face.  That  moment  lived  over  again  as  Sybil  remembered  it. 
She  saw  herself  careless  and  merry,  and  she  saw  him  standing 
by  her  and  looking  down  at  her  amused  and  indulgent.  Ah! 
why  were  those  happy  days  gone  by  ?  Why  had  that  stranger 
come  and  broken  this  sweet  harmony  ?  She  felt  almost  angry 
with  her  suitor,  unconscious  though  he  was  of  his  sin,  and  she 
had  resolved  to  say,  once  for  all,  that  she  detested  him,  when  a 
sound  of  voices  coming  forth  warned  her  that  if  she  Avantcd  to 


Sybil's  second  loye.  151 

see  him  unseen,  now  was  her  time.  Sybil  remained  very  still, 
and  almost  kept  in  her  breath  as  they  came  forth  from  the 
cool  shade  of  the  house  into  the  sunshine  of  the  garden.  It  al- 
most seemed  as  if  Count  de  Renneville  were  aware  of  Sybil's 
purpose,  and  willing  to  abet  it,  for  after  giving  a  keen  look  to 
the  tree,  he  stood  still  talking,  bareheaded,  to  Miss  Glyn,  and 
full  in  the  young  girl's  view. 

Miss  Cains  had  said  it,  truly ;  this  was  a  man  whom  her 
Uncle  Edward  could  not  like ;  both  were  fair,  both  had  that  look 
of  calm  will  -which  is  often  found  in  fair  men,  but  in  all  else  they 
differed.  This  young  man's  face  expressed  more  tenacity  than 
power ;  his  look  was  clear,  firm,  and  keen ;  but  his  was  not  the 
bright  eagle  eye  of  Mr.  Kennedy's  brother.  His  smile  was  frank  . 
and  pleasant ;  no  one  could  say  that  it  was  genial. 

As  Sybil  gazed  at  his  marble  countenance,  which  looked  as 
if  no  change  of  emotion  could  bring  color  into  it,  she  remem- 
bered how  often  a  word,  a  look,  a  jest,  had  sent  up  a  gay  or  a 
sensitive  flush  to  her  Uncle  Edward's  handsome  countenance ; 
but  if  he  was  more  open,  more  ardent,  and  more  manly,  per- 
haps, than  the  Count  de  Renneville,  he  was  less  gentle,  and  less 
amiable.  Never,  Sybil  felt  it,  would  this  suitor  of  hers  chide  or 
reprove  in  sharp  speech.  Silence  would  express  his  displeasure ; 
and  however  deep  this  might  be,  it  would  be  respectful.  And 
with  all  that  he  looked  true.  Misfortune  had  tried  him,  and  not 
found  him  wanting,  and  with  a  beating  heart  she  felt  it  was  im- 
possible to  connect  a  mean  or  ungenerous  action  with  that  pale, 
proud  face. 

Whilst  she  was  thus  examining  him,  Count  de  Renneville 
was  exchanging  a  last  adieu  with  Miss  Glyn.  Mr.  Kennedy  ac- 
companied him  to  the  limit  of  his  possessions,  and  Sybil's  aunt 
and  Blanche  Cains  remained  behind. 

"  Miss  Cains,"  solemnly  said  Miss  Glyn,  "  I  cannot  have 
heard  you  rightly  ;  you  cannot  have  meant  to  say  that  my  niece 
was  in  a  tree  ? " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Glyn,  that  was  my  very  meaning, 
and  in  a  tree — in  this  very  tree — I  saw  her." 

Miss  Glyn  turned  to  the  elder-tree.  It  was  very  still,  and 
looked  unconscious  of  all  harm  or  concealment. 

''Sybil,  come  down,"  she  said. 

A  little  breeze  made  the  leaves  of  the  elder-tree  quiver,  but 
it  made  no  other  motion. 

"Come  down   directly!"   said  Miss  Glyn,   angrily;    "you 


152  sybil's  second  love. 

ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  I  never  heard  of  so  un-young- 
lady-like  a  proceeding  ! " 

But  as  even  this  appeal  did  not  bring  forth  Sybil,  Blanche 
opened  the  heavy  boughs  and  looted  in. 

"  The  bird  is  flown,"  she  said  gayly  ;  "  and  yet  she  was 
here  a  minute  ago,  for  I  saw  her  foot,  and  pinched  it.  Now, 
indeed,  Miss  Glyn,  you  must  not  look  at  me.  I  did  not  advise 
Sybil  to  get  into  the  tree — not  I." 

This  remark  was  accompanied  with  what  Miss  Glyn  after- 
ward termed  to  her  brother-in-law  "  an  audacious  look "  of 
Miss  Cains's  blue  eyes.  She  felt  so  indignant  both  at  Sybil's 
indecorous  proceeding,  and  at  her  friend's  impertinent  glances, 
that  she  walked  off  without  a  word. 

"There,"  said  Blanche  Cains,  when  she  had  found  out  her 
friend  in  her  room,  "  you  have  got  me  into  trouble  with  Miss 
Glyn.  I  did  not  get  into  the  tree,  but  I  have  the  credit  of  it. 
I  wish  you  would  make  haste  and  be  made  a  countess  of,  my 
dear.  May  be  the  sunshine  of  it  would  shed  a  few  rays  upon 
me,  and  give  me  that  gilding  I  fail  in.  That  I  am  not  deep  in 
Miss  Glyn's  good  graces  I  need  not  tell  you  ;  and  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that  though  I  try  to  be  amiable,  and  all  that,  I  can  see  Mr. 
Kennedy  only  endures  me.  Indeed,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  he  did 
not  rather  resent  my  being  well  when  your  head  ached  the 
other  evening.  I  must  say  I  do  not  relish  his  compliments  upon 
my  health  and  strength,  etc.  I  can  see  he  thinks  me  rather 
large  ;  but  I  cannot  help  that,  can  I  ?  As  to  his  countship,  he 
did  not  see  me,  but  looked  most  orthodoxly — is  that  English  ? 
- — woe-begone  at  the  non-appearance  of  his  lady-love.  Then 
there's  Mrs.  Ronald,  who  gave  me  such  austere  glances  the 
other  day.  I  can  see  that  I  am  tabooed  there.  Perhaps  I  de- 
serve it.  If  I  had,  indeed,  some  thousands  for  my  portion,  I 
might  dance  to  my  heart's  content,  and  crush  them  all;  but 
being  poor  I  must  not  think  of  it,  and  must  submit  to  be  driven 
about  society  as  a  sort  of  common  foe." 

This  speech  Miss  Cains  uttered  with  some  bitterness  of  ac- 
cent, and  as  she  uttered  it,  she  tossed  her  handsome  head  in  a 
defiant  way,  that  reminded  Sybil  of  her  uncle. 

"  If  you  do  not  go  to  Mrs.  Ronald's,  I  will  not  go,"  she  said 
eagerly  ;  "you  may  rely  upon  that." 

Blanche  laughed  and  kissed  her. 

"  As  if  I  wanted  any  tiling  of  the  kind,"  she  said  good-hu- 
morcdly.     "  No,  no,  my  dear,  that  will  never  do  !     Bless  you ! 


sybil's  second  love.  153 

I  can  bear  to  be  excluded  from  Mrs.  Ronald's."  And  she  added 
with  a  sigh,  "  I  have  gone  through  heavier  trials  than  that,  Pussy. 
But  what  about  the  count,  my  dear — are  you  really  going  to 
marry  that  man? " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  it  looks  terribly  like  it.  He  is  evidently  accept- 
able to  the  powers  that  be,  and  unless  you  say  'no'  I  do  not  sec 
what  there  is  to  prevent  it." 

"  Well,  but  I  may  say  no  ? " 

"  But  you  will  not.  You  have  looked  at  him,  and  you  will 
not  say  no  ?  " 

Sybil  said  nothing,  but  pulled  to  pieces  a  green  twig  she 
had  plucked  from  the  elder-tree.  She  began  to  fear  that  Blanche 
spoke  truly,  and  that  she  would  not  say  "  no."  Something  be- 
yond her  own  will  seemed  to  be  impelling  her  onward.  She 
was  like  a  journeyer  who  walks  down  a  path  leading  to  a 
bourne  he  cares  not  for,  but  who  goes  on  scarce  knowing  why. 
Her  aunt,  her  father,  were  evidently  favorable  to  the  count's 
suit.  Oh !  for  some  strong  hand  that  would  compel  her  to 
turn  back  and  retrace  her  steps  into  the  pleasant  world  of 
maiden  liberty — that  she  could  say  "  no  !  " 

Sybil  knew,  but  she  was  honest  enough  to  confess  to  her- 
self that  she  probably  would  not  utter  that  word.  It  was  her- 
self whom  she  feared  most,  and  not  without  cause.  It  is  seldom 
indeed  that  we  are  not  our  own  gi'eatest  peril  and  temptation. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Cains,  "  is  it  to  be,  or  not  to  be?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew,  Blanche,  and  I  wish  some  one  would  help 
me  to  the  knowledge,  and  settle  it  all  for  me.  I  wish  uncle  had 
stayed  ;  I  would  have  thrown  my  burden  upon  him,  and  had 
rest.     What  would  you  do,  Blanche  ? " 

"  Say  yes  to  a  rich  count,  and  no  to  a  poor  one,  of  course; 
for  what  could  a  poor  man  do  with  me  ? " 

"  But,  I  mean,  if  you  were  as  I  am." 

Miss  Cains  shook  her  head. 

"  I  never  could  believe  in  Metempsychosis,  and  I  never  can 
transmigrate  myself  into  some  other  person's  position  or  con- 
cerns. I  am  myself,  and  no  one  else — Blanche  Cains,  and  there 
is  an  end  of  it." 

Sybil  sighed ;   she  could  get  consolation  and  comfort  from 
no  one.     Temporary  relief  came  to  her  that  evening  from  an  un- 
expected  quarter.      Count  de  Rennevillc's  mother  was  very  ill, 
aud  not  expected  to  live. 
7* 


154  sybil's  second  love. 

"  And  if  you  "would  not  see  the  count  this  morning,  I  do  not 
think  you  will  see  him  in  a  hurry,  my  dear,"  reproachfully  said 
Miss  Glyn. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  replied  Sybil  in  a  tone  full  of  concern, 
"for  I  believe  he  is  much  attached  to  his  mother." 

"  He  is  all  heart,"  warmly  said  Miss  Glyn.  "  I  could  see 
that." 

They  stood  in  the  garden.  Sybil  looked  round  for  Blanche 
to  tell  her  the  news,  and  saw  her  coming  slowly  toward  them. 

"Oh,  Blanche,"  she  cried,  running  up  to  her,  "Madame  de 
Benneville  is  so  ill !  " 

"  Is  she  ? "  abstractedly  said  Miss  Cains. 

There  was  something  in  her  tone,  something,  too,  in  her 
face,  which  made  Sybil  exclaim  : 

"  Blanche,  what  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  My  dear,  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  without  usiug  slang, 
which  I  know  you  hate,  like  a  dainty  little  fairy  as  you  are, 
Well,  I  will  make  an  effort  for  your  sake,  and  clothe  my  infor- 
mation in  decorous  language.  My  dear,  Miss  Blunt  dispenses 
with  my  services,  and  I  am  cast  adrift." 

"  Then  you  shall  stay  with  me !  "  cried  Sybil,  clasping  Mi^s 
Cains  in  her  arms ;  "  I  will  not  let  you  go  !" 

"  Nonsense  ! "  said  Blanche,  laughing, 

"  It  is  not  nonsense,  is  it,  aunt  ?  Papa,  you  will  not  let 
Blanche  go,  will  you  %  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  gayly  replied  Mr.  Kennedy,  who  now  came 
up  to  them. 

"  I  need  not  tell  Miss  Cains  she  may  rely  upon  my  doing 
every  thing  to  promote  her  views,"  stiffly  said  Miss  Glyn. 

Blanche  bowed  haughtily  as  Mr.  Kennedy  said  quickly, 

"Views! — what  views?  Miss  Cains  is  not  going  to  get 
married,  is  she  ?  " 

"No,  no!"  cried  Sybil,  "Miss  Cains  is  going  to  stay  with 
me  forever  ! " 

Miss  Cains  looked  at  Mr.  Kennedy  a  little  saucily. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  think  I  am 
going  to  heed  this  young  lady,  and  fasten  myself  upon  you,  like 
the  old  man  of  the  sea.  But  if  you  will  bear  with  mc  for  a 
week  or  two  longer — " 

"  Now,  Miss  Cains,"  he  interrupted,  "  do  you  mean  to 
break  Sybil's  heart,  that  you  talk  of  weeks  when  years  would 
not  content  her — covetous  little  thing  !  " 


sybil's  second  love.  155 

"Well,  I  am  covetous,"  confessed  Sybil ;  and  I  cannot  bear 
to  be  without  all  the  people  whom  I  like ;  and,  papa,  I  do  long 
to  have  uncle  back  again." 

There  was  a  querulous  plaintiveness  in  her  tone,  which 
made  her  father  laugh,  and  turned  her  aunt's  anger  from  the 
present  Blanche  Caius  to  the  absent  Uncle  Edward. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  be  ridiculous,  Sybil,"  she  said, 
sharply. 

"  I  am  not  ridiculous,"  wilfully  said  Sybil ;  "  but  I  do  love 
Uncle  EdAvard,  and  I  am  sure  he  loves  me." 

"  Indeed  he  does,  Pussy,"  kindly  said  her  father ;  whilst 
Miss  Glyn  wralked  away  in  mute  indignation. 

Mr.  Kennedy  stayed  with  the  two  girls,  and  the  three  lin- 
gered out  in  the  soft  summer  night  till  heavy  dews  sent  them 
in.  Miss  Glyn  was  in  her  room.  Mr.  Kennedy  said  he  had 
letters  to  write,  and  must  leave  them. 

"  Are  you  wTriting  to  uncle  ? "  asked-  Sybil. 

"  Yes,  Pussy,  I  am." 

"  Well,  then,  do  tell  him  I  long  to  have  him  back,"  she  said ; 
"  and  give  my  love,  my  best  love  to  him." 

Mr.  Kennedy  promised  to  do  so ;  and  his  back  was  scarcely 
turned,  when  Miss  Cains  exclaimed : 

"  Well,  Sybil,  I  believe  you  dote  on  your  uncle  !  " 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  him,"  frankly  said  Sybil ;  but  the  plain 
truth  is,  I  feel  so  happy  to  know  you  are  staying  here  forever 
— it  makes  my  heart  overflow,  Blanche." 

"  Forever !  "  sharply  said  Miss  Cains  ;  "  you  mean  till  I  get 
a  situation.  You  do  not  suppose  I  take  Mr.  Kennedy's  speeches 
as  more  than  civility  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Blanche,  do  not  be  unkind  !  " 

"  Bid  me  not  be  clear-sighted — I  cannot  help  it.  I  have  not 
lived  in  a  downy  nest  like  you,  but  have  been  storm-tossed  as 
any  sea-bird ;  and  that  from  childhood  upward.  Of  course  you 
are  very  kind,  and  all  that,  but  I  cannot  stay  in  this  house  for- 
ever;  I  must  go  forth.  Well !  let  those  who  envied  me  t'other 
night's  triumph  be  avenged.  The  queen  of  the  ball,  who  was 
dressed  in  your  finery,  Sybil,  is  but  a  penniless  girl  after  all, 
and  she  is  cast  upon  life  with  a  few  pounds  in  her  pocket,  and 


I  » 


knows  not,  God  help  her,  what  the  morrow  may  bring  fortl 

Tears  rushed  to  her  eyes  as  she  spoke  thus,  and  commented 

on  her  hard  destiny. 

"  You  shall  not  go,  you  shall  not  leave  mc  !  "  said  Sybil,  a 


156  SYBIL'S    SECOND   LOVE. 

little  passionately  ;  "  what,  have  I  but  one  friend,  and  must  I 
part  with  her  ?  I  tell  you,  that  until  you  have  found  such  a 
home  as  I  approve,  you  shall  not  leave  me." 

She  spoke  with  so  much  vehemence  that  her  whole  frame 
shook. 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  "  softly  said  Blanche  ;  "  am  I  not  staying? 
— is  it  not  agreed,  darling?  Why,  I  have  no  sort  of  wish  to 
leave  you.  It  is  you  who  will  go  away.  What  a  pretty  little 
countess  you  will  make  !  And  you  will  look  quite  fairy-like  and 
interesting  in  that  gray  old  manor.  Well,  well,  no  count  will 
ever  come  and  woo  me,  my  dear — not  he.  I  shall  bring  wealth 
and  happiness  to  no  one.  I  shall  not  be  the  restorer  of  a  fallen 
line,  etc. — no,  all  that  is  out  of  the  question.  And  yet  I  was 
born  rich,  and,  but  for  my  father's  love  of  cards,  should  be 
wealthy  now.  Of  course  it  is  no  use  lamenting,  but  somehow 
or  other,  I  cannot  help  doing  so  every  now  and  then.  If  some 
prince  would  only  fall  in  love  with  me,  like  the  princes  in  the 
fairy  tales — but  I  do  not  suppose  they  exist  out  of  the  said 
fairy  tales,  do  they  ?  Now,  my  dear,  I  know  what  you  are 
going  to  say  ;  but  it  is  out  of  the  question — I  cannot  marry  a 
poor  man ;  and  if  ten  counts,  each  more  delightful  than  the 
count,  came  to  woo  me,  I  should  say  '  No '  to  every  one.  I 
should  do  so  out  of  mere  prudence  and  charity ;  I  am  an  ex- 
pensive woman,  and  should  be  the  ruin  of  a  poor  fellow,  for  I 
should  be  attired  in  fine  apparel,  and  have  comfort  and  pleasure, 
and  a  home  like  this,  with  affluence  around  me." 

Sybil  heard  her  out,  and  all  the  time  she  Avas  looking  at  the 
old  manor,  where  a  light  was  burning. 

"  And  suppose  I  should  ever  have  the  right  to  offer  you  a 
home  there,"  she  said,  nodding  toward  it,»4'  would  you  say 
'  Yes,'  or  <  No,'  Blanche  ? " 

She  looked  up  coaxingly  in  Miss  Cains's  face  ;  but  there  was 
something  moody  in  the  look  of  that  young  lady's  blue  eyes. 

"  Promise,"  imperatively  said  Sybil. 

Blanche's  features  relaxed,  and  she  looked  down  at  her 
kindly. 

"  I  do  believe  you  are  one  of  the  best  and  most  unselfish 
little  things  that  ever  breathed,"  she  said. 

"  Promise,"  again  said  Sybil. 

With  a  sigh,  Miss  Cains  gave  the  required  pledge  ;  but  as 
she  gave  it,  she  said  mischievously, 

"  Mind,  you  have  promised  to  become  a  countess." 


Sybil's  second  love.  157 

"  No,  I  have  not !  "  cried  Sybil.      And  she  blushed  and 
looked  guilty. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

The  day  was  dark  and  gray ;  mists  from  tbe  sea  stole  across 
the  sky,  heavy  clouds  lowered  above  Saint  Vincent,  yet  tbe  air 
was  so  keen  and  cbill  that  tbe  garden  was  too  cool  to  sit  in, 
and  the  ladies  stayed  within.  Miss  Glyn  put  down  her  work 
to  remark, 

"  Now,  I  call  it  uncivil  of  Count  Andre  de  Renneville  not 
to  call.     His  mother  has  been  dead  a  month." 

"  Aunt,  he  is  in  great  grief." 

"  I  suppose  so.     But  how  do  you  know,  Sybil  ?  " 

"  Denise  told  me  so." 

Miss  Glyn  made  no  comment,  but  Blanche  stole  a  sly  look 
at  her  friend.  She  had  noticed  how  often  Sybil  and  Denise 
were  together,  and  taxed  her  with  delighting  in  the  society  of 
that  slow  handmaiden.  Some  comment  she  would  have  added, 
if  Count  Andre  de  Renneville  had  not  that  very  moment  been 
announced.     She  gave  Sybil  a  sly  pinch,  and  whispered, 

"  The  fairy  prince  is  coming,  my  dear,  so  let  the  sleeping 
beauty  prepare  !  " 

"  There  has  been  a  storm,"  quietly  said  Sybil.  "  This  is 
dreary  travelling  weather.     I  wonder  where  uncle  is?" 

"  In  a  village  inn  by  the  kitchen  fire,  making  love  to  the 
red-armed  damsel  of  the  place,  and  thinking  his  tawny  locks  ir- 
resistible, and  his  green  eyes  quite  killiug  ! " 

"  Pity  he  does  not  hear  you  ! "  rather  dryly  said  Sybil. 

"  Pity,  my  dear,  I  do  not  often  hear  him.  '  That  large, 
vain  Miss  Cains,'  he  says,  '  what — '  " 

Here  the  entrance  of  Count  de  Renneville  checked  the  flow 
of  Miss  Cains's  eloquence. 

Sybil's  heart  yearned  toward  him.  How  pale,  how  worn  he 
looked  !  Grief  and  watching;  had  •done  their  work  with  him 
since  their  last  meeting  in  Mrs.  Ronald's  ball-room.  And  yet 
grave  and  dejected  though  he  seemed,  his  eyes  found  her  out 
at  once.  It  was  to  Miss  Glyn  that  he  directed  his  discourse  ; 
but  though  he  addressed  not  a  word  to  her,  Sybil  felt  included 
in  all  he  said. 


158  sybil's  second  love. 

The  two  girls  remained  apart,  and  did  not  join  in  the  conver 
aation,  Blanche  because  she  took  no  interest  in  it,  Sybil  because 
her  heart  was  beating  so  fast  that  she  could  not  have  uttered  a 
word.  Again  came  back  to  her  the  feeling  which  she  knew  so 
well — the  almost  painful  curiosity  concerning  her  future  des- 
tiny. She  looked  at  him  and  wondered.  He  had  come  for 
her,  of  course ;  she  knew  it,  but,  for  all  that,  was  it  to  be  ? 
Were  these  two  strangers,  who  sat  so  far  apart  in  her  father's 
drawing-room,  James  Kennedy's  daughter  and  Count  de  Renne- 
ville,  to  meet  in  truth  some  day,  and  hand  in  hand  to  walk 
down  the  paths  of  life  until  they  reached  the  goal  of  all  such 
journeys,  and  parted  on  the  threshold  of  death  ?  She  knew  he 
did  not  come  to  her  in  mere  love,  but  she  also  knew  she  was 
his  chosen  one,  and  she  did  not  feel  offended  because  he  could 
not  afford  to  marry  a  poor  girl. 

There  was  a  sweetness  to  Sybil  in  the  thought  that  she 
could  give  as  well  as  receive,  the  sweetness  which  generous  na- 
tures feel  in  the  act  of  bestowing.  She  could  fancy  herself  in 
that  old  manor,  where  the  grim  family  portraits  looked  down 
from  the  walls,  feeling  that  they  looked  not  unkindly  at  her  as 
she  moved  about  the  cold  stone  rooms,  bringing  affluence  and 
warmth  around  her.  Yes,  there  was  something  in  all  this,  a 
royal  pleasure,  but  was  it  sufficient  ?  Would  it  make  Sybil 
happy  ?  She  looked  at  him,  seeking  in  his  countenance  the 
answer  to  that  question.  The  mingled  suavity  and  pride  she 
read  there  seemed  to  give  her  security  for  the  future.  It  did 
not  seem  as  if  this  man  would  ever  be  ungenerous  to  the  wife 
he  had  chosen,  as  if  he  would  remember  her  birth  and  forget 
its  compensation.  She  listened  to  him,  and  pleasant  to  her 
were  the  tones  of  his  voice,  and  the  matter  of  his  speech.  One 
was  measured  and  harmonious,  the  other  was  solid,  though  not 
heavy. 

"I  wonder  why  I  feel  so  drawn  toward. him?"  thought 
Sybil — "  this  is  not  like  the  love-match  one  reads  of,  and  yet  I 
like  it.  I  do  not  think  I  am  in  the  least  fond  of  him,  and  yet  it 
seems  to  me  it  would  be  a  pleasant — nay,  a  happy  thing  to  be 
his  wife.  I  dare  say  there  are  girls  who  can  never  fall  in  love 
— it  is  not  in  their  nature — and  I  really  do  fancy  I  am  one  of 
these.  All  that  romance  is  not  in  my  way  at  all.  I  never  did 
like  the  stolen  matches  in  novels.  I  much  prefer  something 
open,  and  manly,  and  true,  and  sensible ;  and  I  do  like  that 
French  way  of  applying  to  the  old  people  first.     When  a  girl 


shjil's  second  love.  159 

knows  they  are  pleased,  she  can  go  straight  on,  and  not  fear ; 
but  if  she  does  not  know  that,  how  is  she  to  behave  so  as  to 
avoid  trouble- and  grief?  For  suppose  Count  de  Renneville 
asked  me,  and  that  I  said  '  yes,'  and  that  papa  and  aunt  said 
'  no ' — what  a  terrible  affair  that  would  be  !  Of  course  he  must 
withdraw,  and  then,  how  could  I  look  him  in  the  face  again, 
knowing  I  had  said  '  yes '  ?  " 

Here  Sybil's  soliloquy  was  brought  to  an  abrupt  close  by 
catching  the  blue  gleam  of  Miss  Cains's  eyes,  full  of  demure 
and  yet  mocking  meaning:  She  reddened  much,  and  turned 
her  face  to  the  window,  then  gave  a  start. 

"  The  rain  ! "  she  cried. 

No  one  else  had  seen  it,  for  Mr.  Kennedy,  his  sister-in-law, 
and  his  guest  were  sitting  at  some  distance  from  the  row  of 
windows,  and  Blanche  had  her  back  turned  to  them,  and  was 
intent  on  watching  Sybil.  And  so  the  rain  had  come,  and  was 
now  pouring  down  in  a  very  deluge.  Count  Andre  de  Renne- 
ville  rose,  and  went  up  to  the  nearest  window. 

"  I  must  leave  you  at  once,"  he  said  ;  "  it  is  nothing  as  yet, 
but  will  be  something  soon." 

"  It  is  something  now,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  "  and  we  cannot 
let  you  go.  You  must  stay  with  us,  count,  and  dine  here  to- 
day." 

He  spoke  cordially,  and  Sybil  felt  the  count  must  know  this 
was  a  hospitable,  not  a  designing  invitation.  The  count  did 
seem  to  know  it,  and  after  brief  excuse  and  hesitation,  accepted. 
When  he  had  done  so,  to  Miss  Glyn's  infinite  satisfaction,  he 
quietly  drew  a  chair  near  the  couch  on  which  Sybil  still  sat, 
and  evidently  meant  to  devote  some  of  his  attention  to  the 
daughter  of  the  house.  Why  should  he  not,  even  had  he  meant 
nothing  ? — but  that  he  meant  something,  Sybil  felt  in  her  in- 
most heart.  In  the  first  place,  his  look,  though  reserved  and 
calm,  was  a  scrutinizing  look.  Sybil  felt  it ;  her  heart  swelled  a 
little,  but  she  did  not  dislike  it — why  should  she  not  be 
weighed  and  tried  too  ?  She  would  have  hated  him  if  he  had 
been  ready  to  take  her  just  because  she  had  money,  or  because 
she  had  a  pretty  face.  The  close  attention  he  now  gave  her 
proved  that  Count  de  Renneville  was  not  the  man  to  take  a 
wife  so  lightly.  True,  he  had  sought  and  chosen  her,  but  he 
had  not  asked  her  yet,  and  perhaps  he  would  not  ask  her  at  all. 
There  was  no  knowing  but  that  one  of  the  many  faults  with 
which  she   was    no   doubt   endowed,   would   scare  him   away. 


160  sybil's  second  loye. 

Every  tiling  about  him  denoted  a  fastidious  man,  and  Sybil  felt 
very  bumble ;  she  was  not  at  all  in  love,  but  she  did  not  think 
herself  worthy  of  him.  Ah  !  Sybil,  Sybil,  I  fear  much  you 
know  little  of  those  matters  yet ! 

While  these  thoughts  ran  through  her,  Count  de  Renneville 
went  on  examining  her,  and  weighed  her,  as  Sybil  truly  felt. 
He  weighed  her  well  as  he  sat  thus,  talking  pleasantly  of  such 
themes  as  might  please  a  young  lady  of  her  years  ;  he  weighed 
her  during  dinner-time,  when  Sybil,  having  recovered  a  little 
from  her  first  awe,  was  lively,  and  even  petulant,  and  the  whole 
of  that  long  evening  he  weighed  her  still.  Sometimes  Sybil 
saw  it — sometimes  she  was  not  on  her  guard.  In  vain  Miss 
Glyn  frowned  and  looked  stern  ;  Miss  Kennedy  showed  her- 
self pretty  much  as  she  was,  and  spoke  on  every  topic  that 
came  uppermost  in  her  mind.  The  least  welcome  of  these  to 
Miss  Glyn  was  Sybil's  uncle.  The  night  was  stormy  and  wild, 
and  Sybil  was  sure  her  uncle  was  out  in  it.  The  count  sympa- 
thized with  her  distress,  and  Sybil  gave  him  grateful  looks,  for 
her  father  only  said  : 

"  Nonsense,  Pussy ;  Ned  is  an  old  traveller,"  and  Miss  Glyn 
looked  angry,  and  Miss  Cains  disdainful. 

"  Well,  but  travellers  have  been  killed  in  thunderstorms," 
urged  Sybil,  who  looked  doleful ;  "  and  I  cannot  help  wishing  I 
were  sure  of  uncle's  safety." 

"Then  you  believe  in  certainty?"  said  the  count. 

Sybil  gave  him  a  doubtful  look.     What  did  he  mean  by  that  ? 

"  My  meaning  is  this,"  he  said  ;  "  life  is  like  a  running 
stream  made  up  of  a  succession  of  changes,  as  that  is  made  up 
of  a  succession  of  waves.  We  are  sure  but  of  two  things — of 
life  itself,  and  of  death." 

Sybil  reddened. 

"  I  am  sure  I  love  uncle,"  she  said. 

"  True,  but  not  that  you  Avill  love  or  have  him  to  love  to- 
morrow. There  is  no  such  thing  as  an  abiding  present ;  it  be- 
comes a  past  even  as  we  speak,  and  the  future  is  not  ours." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  always  love  uncle,"  obstinately  said  Sybil. 

The  couut  bowed,  and  would  not  pursue  the  argument 
further. 

"  He  is  good  and  kind,  and  he  likes  me.  Why  should  I  not 
.xke  him  ?  "  insisted  Sybil. 

The  count  looked  as  surprised  as  good-breeding  would  let 
him  at  her  eager  tone. 


sybil's  secokd  love.  161 

Poor  Sybil,  however,  had  an  object  at  heart.  If  her  uncle 
did  not  like  the  count,  she  wanted  the  count  to  like  her  uncle, 
forgetting  that  such  dislikes  are  generally  mutual.  So  she  began 
sounding  the  absent  uncle's  praises,  till  even  her  father  stared 
and  looked  annoyed.  Not  so  Count  Andre  de  Eenneville.  He 
listened  like  one  deeply  interested ;  and,  in  reality,  he  was  so. 
He  was  a  careful,  fastidious  man,  and  not  all  Sybil's  money 
could  tempt  him  if  she  were  not  such  as  he  wished  her  to 
be.  It  so  happened  that  this  affectionate  remembrance  of  her 
relative  pleased  him.  He  did  not  much  like,  indeed,  the  object 
of  her  praises,  but  what  about  that !  A  girl  of  seventeen  is 
easily  weaned  from  her  early  ties ;  but  the  warm  heart  remains 
when  the  unworthy  idol  is  altogether  shattered.  Sybil's  suitor 
was  pleased;  and  when  he  rode  home  in  the  calm  moonlight, 
with  a  watery  landscape  around  him,  and  a  clear  sky  above  his 
head,  Count  de  Renneville  confessed  to  himself  that  he  had  dis- 
covered a  rare  pearl,  and  would  do  well  to  secure  it  ere  some 
other  man  should  win  and  wear  it. 

"  Sybil,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy  to  his  daughter  as  the  was  going 
up  to  her  room,  "  come  with  me — I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Sybil  followed  her  father  down  to  the  library,  and,  with  a 
beating  heart,  listened  to  the  following  speech : 

"I  need  not  tell  you  the  object  of  the  count's  visits,  but  I 
must  tell  you  this — unless  you  are  prepared  to  sanction  this 
young  man's  addresses,  he  must  come  no  more.  He  is  neither 
an  old  friend  nor  an  old  acquaintance;  the  whole  world  knows 
what  he  is  coming  for,  and  you  must  not  commit  yourself." 

"But  I  cannot  say  yes  on  such  short  knowledge,"  cried 
Sybil. 

"  He  will  not  ask  you  to  say  yes  just  yet,"  replied  her  father 
smiling ;  "  but  though  I  like  him  and  approve  of  him,  I  will  not 
allow  him  to  come  unless  I  know  how  far  you  like  him." 

In  her  distress  she  became  prudent. 

"  Papa,  we  know  nothing  about  him,"  she  said,  gravely. 

"  I  know  plenty,"  he  shortly  replied.  "I  have  got  informa- 
tion on  which  I  can  rely." 

"  From  whom,  papa,  if  you  please  ? " 

"From  no  less  a  person  than  your  uncle." 

In  a  moment  Sybil's  face  was  in  a  flame. 

"And  does  he  really  speak  well  of — of  the  count?"  she 
stammered. 

"  Most  handsomely.     Here  is  his  letter.     Wait,  I  want  that 


162  sybil's  second  love. 

half ;  "but  you  will  find  all  that  concerns  you.      Take  it,  Pussy, 
and  give  me  your  answer  to-morrow  morning." 

He  rose  as  Sybil  took  the  sheet  of  paper  he  handed  her. 
Eagerly  she  ran  up  to  her  room,  locked  herself  in,  and  read  : 

"  This  much  I  have  ascertained — there  is  not  a  stain  on 
that  young  man's  character.  Few  men  reach  manhood  so  un- 
blemished, by  common  report.  There  is  a  general  opinion  of 
his  ability,  which  he  has  not  had  the  opportunity  to  confirm, 
but  which  speaks  well  in  his  favor.  I  have  no  doubt  hut  he  de- 
serves the  respect  and  esteem  he  enjoys,  and  from  my  personal 
acquaintance  with  him  I  know  he  would  be  invaluable  to  you. 
With  regard  to  Sybil,  I  believe  she  will  find  in  him  a  kind  and 
attentive  husband.  So  good  a  son  cannot  be'  unkind  to  his 
wife,  especially  to  a  wife  like  Sybil,  young,  pretty,  and  fascinat- 
ing, and  courtesy  will  satisfy  her.  She  is  entitled  to  more,  and 
can  he  give  her  that  more?  I  doubt  it,  and  if  she  were  my 
daughter,  as  she  is  yours — " 

Here  the  letter  was  torn  off,  and  Sybil  remained  in  the  doubt 
that  it  suggested.  But,  indeed,  it  was  nc  doubt.  Her  uncle 
was  too  just  not  to  speak  the  truth  of  her  suitor,  and  that  truth 
was  to  his  honor;  but  he  was  too  tenacious  of  his  original  dis- 
bike  to  retract  it.  Never — Sybil  felt  it  with  a  swelling  heart — 
never  would  those  two  men  be  friends.  The  whole  night  long 
she  tossed  in  doubt,  perplexity,  and  grief;  by  dawn  she  slept, 
and  when  she  wakened,  the  sweet  deluder,  Hope,  whispered  that 
she  both  would  and  could  reconcile  these  two.  Love  for  her 
would  bind  them  where  all  else  failed.  So  when  she  returned 
her  uncle's  letter  to  her  father,  Count  Andre  de  Renneville  had 
prevailed  over  Uncle  Edward. 


■♦  ♦  » 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

Some  men  are  never  in  a  hurry,  and  it  may  be  wise  that 
they  should  not  be  so.  They  cannot  decide  well,  if  they  decide 
quickly.  To  these  Count  de  Renneville  probably  belonged.  A 
full  week  elapsed  before  he  paid  his  next  visit. 

"  You  little  goose  !  "  said  Miss  Cains.      "  If  you  had  played 


sybil's  second  love.  1G3 

your  cards  better,  lie  would  have  been  crawling  at  your  feet  the 
next  morning ! " 

"I  should  not  like  that  at  all,"  proudly  said  Sybil. 

"  "Well,  but,  my  darling  duck — for  I  believe  you  do  not  like 
being  called  a  goose — you  would  rather  be  loved  than  not. 
Confess  you  would  ! " 

But  Sybil  would  do  no  such  thing.  To  wish  for  a  man's 
affection  is  a  terrible  step  in  the  road  of  love,  and  to  utter  that 
wish  is  simply  owning  yourself  conquered. 

"I  wonder  whether  I  could  get  it  out  of  you  by  shaking 
you  ? "  pursued  Miss  Cains.  "  Well,  what  are  you  blushing 
for?" 

"With  which  abrupt  question  Miss  Cains  went  up  to  the  win- 
dow of  Sybil's  room,  and  saw  the  count  slowly  riding  toward 
the  house. 

"  I  would  have  made  him  gallop  !  "  she  thought,  indignantlv. 

The  young  ladies  were  not  summoned  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  the  count  departed  without  having  seen  them. 

"  What  a  bear  !  "  said  Blanche.  "  You  may  say  what  you 
like,  Sybil,  that  French  way  is  all  bosh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  I 
mean  it  is  not  love." 

"  I  like  it,"  replied  Sybil,  with  a  light  in  her  eyes.  "  I  like 
a  girl  to  be  placed  beyond  reach,  and  not  to  be  like  an  apple  on 
a  bough,  ready  to  be  plucked  by  every  hand.  I  like  her  yea 
and  nay  to  be  like  that  of  a  sovereign,  the  last  asked  for,  be- 
cause it  is  the  final  thing,  after  all,  the  word  without  which  ah 
else  is  vain,  and  which  alone  makes  all  else  good." 

"  My  goodness  ! "  cried  Blanche,  "  who  would  have  thought 
the  young  lady  had  it  all  in  her  ?  Just  hear  how  she  goes  on  ! 
Why,  she  knows  more  than  I  do.  Well,  my  dear,  the  count  is 
gone,  or  going,  and  you  shall  soon  have  to  give  your  yea  or  nay, 
I  believe." 

And,  indeed,  it  proved  so.  Within  half  an  hour  of  that 
time,  Sybil  was  closeted  with  her  father,  gravely  listening  to  bis 
communication.  Count  dc  Renneville  had  done  her  the  honor 
of  asking  for  her  hand  ;  he,  Mr.  Kennedy,  approved  his  suit, 
which  was  also  acceptable  to  Miss  Glvn,  the  rest  now  lav  with 
SybiL 

"  I  must  know  more  of  him,"  she  replied. 

"  Must  you,  Pussy  ?  and  pray  how  long  will  that  knowledge 
take  you  ?  " 

"  A  fortnight,  at  least." 


164  sybil's  second  love. 

"  And  you  will  be  much  the  wiser  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  I r' 
he  replied,  with  a  smile.     "  But  be  it  so,  Pussy,  be  it  so." 

No  one,  indeed,  seemed  to  take  Sybil's  fortnight  as  meaning 
any  thing.  Miss  Glyn  called  it  ridiculous,  and  Blanche  laughed 
at  it — Count  de  Itenneville  alone,  when  he  called  that  same 
evening,  looked  doubtful  and  anxious.  As  the  evening  were  on 
he  seemed  to  gather  hope  and  security  from  Sybil's  calm  and 
gentle  manner  ;  but  often,  when  he  thought  himself  unperceived, 
he  fastened  on  her  a  look  so  searching  and  so  keen,  that  Sybil, 
who  detected  it  once  or  twice,  felt  troubled  to  the  very  heart. 

As  he  watched  her,  another  person  watched  him.  The 
young  man  soon  became  conscious  that  a  cairn  pair  of  blue  eyes 
was  reading  him  very  attentively.  He  shifted  his  position,  he 
rebelled  and  returned  the  look  as  resentfully  as  politeness  allows ; 
it  mattered  not — Miss  Cains  would  look  on  as  coolly  as  if  a 
wall  and  not  a  human  face  were  before  her.  The  count  was 
seusitive,  and  as  he  could  not  endure  this  inquisition,  he  re- 
solved to  tax  Miss  Cains  with  it,  and  break  the  charm.  So,  be- 
fore the  evening,  he  said  to  her  with  a  smile  : 

"  I  perceive  I  am  like  some  one  you  know  ? " 

"  No,  but  you  are  very  much  like  an  historical  portrait  I 
have  seen,"  she  frankly  replied. 

"  May  I  inquire  who  was  the  original  ?  " 

Miss  Cains  seemed  to  think,  then  shook  her  head  with  a 
smile ;  she  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  Sybil  looked  disappointed, 
and  the  count  rather  cool  and  haughty. 

From  that  day  forth  his  manner  to  Miss  Cains  was  a  master- 
piece of  politeness  and  reserve.  It  was  a  mixture  of  profound 
respect  and  cool  indifference,  through  which  she  found  it  impos- 
sible to  break.  She  was  defiant,  impertinent,  and  even  amiable 
— in  vain.  The  count  had  woven  such  a  web  of  courtesy 
around  her,  that  she  could  not  break  from  its  meshes.  So  she 
ended  by  submitting  with  a  languid  apathy,  through  which  it 
was  impossible  to  detect  any  other  feeling. 

Somethiug  of  all  this  Sybil  saw,  but  very  little,  for  the  war, 
such  as  it  was,  took  place  cither  behind  her  back,  or  during  her 
absence.  Miss  Cains  was  prudent  by  habit,  and  her  antagonist 
through  apprehension.  Indeed,  his  fortnight  of  probation 
proved  him  to  be  a  lover  both  modest  and  shrewd.  He  fol- 
lowed the  turns  of  Sybil's  mood  so  closely  that  he  never  lost  an 
inch  of  ground  in  her  favor.  It  was  plain  to  his  young  mistress 
that,  conscious  though  he   probably  was,  of  good  birth,  good 


sybil's  second  love.  165 

breedino-,  and  a  handsome  person,  he  relied  upon  none  of  these 
for  success.  The  doubt  and  uneasiness  he  did  not  attempt  to 
disguise  served  him  well.  Sybil  felt  potentate,  and  she  loved 
her  power,  though  she  was  too  generous  to  turn  tyrant.  Pass- 
ing doubts  and  fears  she  had,  but  these  she  imparted  to  none. 
The  silence  of  Blanche  perplexed  and  frightened  her,  and  she  had 
not  courage  to  break  the  subject  till  the  eve  of  the  last  day  of 
the  fortnight. 

Miss  Cains  was  in  her  room  looting  out  of  her  window, 
with  her  arms  folded  on  the  sill,  when  Sybil  entered  it  unheard. 
The  sunset  sky,  red  and  glowing,  filled  the  square  of  the  open 
window,  and  a  flood  of  light  poured  on  Blanche's  fair  head  and 
handsome  face.  Her  blue  eyes  were  fixed  as  in  a  dream,  and 
Sybil  thought  she  looked  both  beautiful  and  poetic.  She  ap- 
proached her  with  a  sort  of  hesitation,  and  touched  her  gently. 
Miss  Cains  gave  a  little  start,  but  turned  ronnd  smiling. 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  the  garden,"  she  said. 

"  So  I  was  awhile  ago,  but  I  am  here  now." 

"  So  I  see,  my  dear." 

"Blanche,  what  were  you  thinking  of? — you  looked  so 
lovely  ! " 

"  My  dear,  I  was  thinking  that  cold  mutton  is  delicious  with 
caper  sauce,  but  that  by  saying  as  much  I  have  lost  the  slender 
share  I  possessed  in  Miss  Glyn's  good  graces.  Now,  don't  look 
provoked.  I  must  tell  the  truth.  You  would  have  liked  me 
to  say  that  the  glory  of  the  sunset  was  the  object  of  my  thoughts, 
but  I  cannot  help  it — that  big  staring  sun  is  mute  to  me.  I 
wish  he  had  never  shone  on  me,  since  he  would  not  give  me  a 
brighter  destiny." 

"  Blanche  !  Blanche  !  your  destiny  shall  be  bright  if  I  many 
him — a  real  fairy  tale." 

So  spoke  Sybil.     Blanche  was  silent. 

"  Blanche,  the  fortnight  is  out  to-morrow ;  counsel,  ad- 
vise me." 

There  was  a  pause — a  long  one  it  seemed  to  Sybil's  beating 
heart.     At  length  Miss  Cains  said, 

"  You  want  my  advice,  Sybil  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  never  marry  that  man." 

Sybi!  turned  pale,  and  said : 

"Why  so  ? " 

"  You  have  teased  me  to  try  and  remember  what  historical 


166  sybil's  second  love. 

portrait  lie  was  like.  Sybil,  I  had  never  forgotten,  but  I  would 
not  tell ;  even  now  I  feel  I  had  better  say  nothing." 

Sybil  laughed  nervously,  and  said : 

"  Never  mind." 

"  But  suppose  your  mind  is  made  up,  and  that  I  influence 
you  to  a  change  you  may  repent  later? " 

Miss  Cains  looked  keenly  at  Sybil  as  she  spoke.  But  Sybil, 
still  very  pale,  replied,  firmly  : 

"  I  should  never  repent  having  followed  your  advice,  Blanche.'' 

"  Well,  then,  never  marry  that  man,  I  say  again." 

"Why  so,  Blanche?" 

"Because  he  is  too  subtle,  and  too  silent — because,  though 
you  lived  years  with  him,  you  would  know  nothing  of  him." 

"And  whom  is  he  like,  Blanche?  " 

"  Oh  !  that  is  nothing,  after  all — nothing." 

"But  you  said  you  would  tell  me,  Blanche,  you  did." 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  nothing ;  but  since  I  said  I  would  tell  you, 
why,  he  is  like  Judas  in  that  picture  we  once  saw  together,  you 
know,  when  Judas  is  betraying  our  Saviour  with  a  kiss." 

Sybil  reddened  and  bit  her  lip.  She  remembered  the  pic- 
ture, and  there  was  a  likeness — a  slight,  hateful  likeness — in  the 
calm,  handsome  face  the  painter  had  given  to  the  great  traitor. 

"  There,  you  are  vexed,"  said  Miss  Cains — "  I  should  not 
have  told  you,  for,  after  all,  it  is  nothing.  The  Judas  in  the 
picture  was  painted  from  a  real  man,  who  may  have  been  both 
good  and  true — a  devoted  son,  a  faithful  lover,  and  the  rest  of 
it.  A  painter  once  did  me  the  honor  to  ask  me  to  sit  for 
Lucrezia  Borgia — kind,  was  it  not?" 

"  Blanche,"  nervously  said  Sybil,  "  the  likeness  is  nothing, 
as  you  say ;  but  there  is  more  in  your  mind.     Tell  it  to  me." 

"  No — where's  the  use  ?  I  can  only  say  what  I  think  and 
feel,  and  what  is  that  ?  " 

But  Sybil  insisted,  and  Blanche  yielded. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "the  count  is  a  perfect  gentleman.;  but 
though  I  have  watched  and  watched  him,  and  read  and  read 
him  again,  I  have  not  been  able  to  detect  how  much,  or  how 
little,  he  really  loves  you." 

Sybil  blushed,  and  laughed  like  one  relieved. 

"  But  he  does  love  me,"  she  said ;  "  you  should  have  seen 
him  a  while  ago — you  should  have  seen  him  ! " 

"How  so?" 

"  Why,  he  forestalled  the  day,  and  asked  me,  and  I  was 


sybil's  second  love.  167 

cruel,  and  played  with  him,  and  he  shook  and  trembled  like  an 
aspen-leaf." 

"And  what  did  you  say ?  " 

"  Blanche,  I  had  not  the  heart  to  keep  it  up.  I  smiled — I 
only  smiled — and  in  a  moment  he  was  all  joy — all  happiness — 
and  so  was  I.     Blanche,  I  am  the  happiest  girl  alive  to-night." 

Miss  Cains  started  to  her  feet,  crimson  with  rage. 

"  You  little  traitress  ! "  she  cried — "  how  dare  you  deceive 
me  ? — how  dare  you  play  with  me  ?  " 

Sybil  stepped  back ;  she  had  never  seen  her  so.  Her  amazed 
looks  sobered  her  friend's  manner,  but  did  not  subdue  her  real 
anger. 

"  Sybil,"  she  said,  indignantly,  "  do  such  a  thing  again — at- 
tempt to  deceive  me,  and  I  leave  the  house  forever !  How  dare 
you  ask  me  to  advise  you,  when  you  had  given  your  consent  ?  " 

"  Blanche,"  said  Sybil,  trembling  with  agitation,  "  I  was  very 
wrong  ;  but  you  always  find  me  out — I  thought  you  would.  I 
did  not  mean  to  deceive  you — indeed,  I  did  not !  " 

"  Indeed,  I  must  have  been  blind  not  to  have  found  you  out, 
as  you  say,"  replied  Miss  Cains,  after  a  brief  pause — "  why,  I 
had  seen  you  with  him  five  minutes  before.  Yes,  I  was  an  idiot 
to  know  no  better — well,  well,  do  not  mind  it ;  and  so  you  are 
happy,  and  he  really  loves  you  ? — then,  shall  I  tell  you  what, 
Sybil  ? — he  does  not  like  me,  and  he  does  not  feel  at  ease  when 
I  am  by — yes,  that  is  it.     My  old  luck  !  " 

"  But  he  does  like,  or  he  shall  like  you !  "  cried  Sybil ;  "  it 
is  bad  enough  to  have  lost  uncle — do  you  think  I  am  going  to 
lose  you? — I  will  not,  Blanche — I  will  not.  Besides,  it  is  all 
settled.  I  have  already  told  him  you  are  to  come  and  live  with 
us,  and  he  is  delighted.     And,  indeed — " 

The  look  Miss  Cains  gave  her  checked  Sybil's  joy.  It  was 
a  very  serious  look  indeed,  almost  a  moody  one,  if  such  a  word 
could  be  used  in  reference  to  Miss  Cains's  blue  eyes. 

"  My  poor  darling  !  "  said  Blanche,  "  will  you  never  weary 
of  fastening  me,  like  the  old  man  of  the  sea,  on  every  one's 
back  ?     What  a  dreadful  bore  they  must  find  me ! " 

"  Now,  Blanche,  that  is  cruel." 

"  No,  little  countess — it  is  kind.  Do  you  think  I  love  you 
bo  little  as  to  wish  to  begin  by  putting  myself  between  your 
.over  and  you  ?  Why  did  I  stay  up  here  this  evening,  but  to 
shun  that  ?  And  now  you  want  me  to  go  and  live  in  the  house 
of  a  man  who  can  scarcely  endure  me." 


168  sybil's  second  love. 

"  For  shame  !  "  cried  Sybil,  indignantly.  "  He  admires  yon, 
and  he  will  like  yon  when  he  knows  you  as  I  do.  I  tell  you  it 
is  all  settled.  Am  I  going  to  give  you  up  for  him  ?  No,  in- 
deed !  Did  he  nurse  me  through  mortal  sickness?  "  she  asked, 
saucily.  "  I  dare  say  he  was  making  love  to  some  other  lady 
whilst  I  was  at  death's  door.  No — no,  my  friend  first — my 
lover  next ! " 

Miss  Cains  smiled  at  this  line  of  argument,  and  replied  a 
little  sadly. 

"You  do  not  know  what  you  are  doing,  Sybil;  but  you 
mean  well,  you  good  little  thing !  " 

"  And  it  shall  be  as  I  mean,"  said  Sybil. 

"  I  suppose  so.     And — are  you  happy,  Sybil  ? " 

"  Oh !  so  happy ! — and  so  is  he !  I  saw  it  in  his  face, 
Blanche." 

"  Of  course  one  does  always  see  it  there,"  rather  drjdy  re- 
plied Miss  Cains. 

"  And  he  is  so  good  !  "  continued  Sybil,  "  so  affectionate- 
he  told  me  all  about  his  mother,  and  how  much  she  loved  him, 
and  how  devoted  they  were  to  each  other,  and  how  she  wished 
for  all  this — he  has  a  noble  heart,  Blanche.  And  I  am  to  tell 
him  every  thing,  and  he  is  to  tell  me  every  thing.  And  we  are 
to  live  in  the  old  manor,  but  to  come  here  every  day,  because  it 
seems  he  is  to  be  partner  with  papa.  Oh  !  Blanche,  I  shall  be 
so  happy !  " 

"  Yes,  my  darling  !  "  softly  said  Blanche,  stroking  her  hair, 
and  kissing  her,  "  so  happy,  and  so  fond,  and  so  good  !  And 
so  good-by." 

"  What !  are  you  tired  of  me  ? " 

"  No,  child,  but  I  must  not  begin  by  absorbing  your  com- 
pany." 

"  Oh  !  Blanche,  let  me  stay,  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you  ! " 

Miss  Cains  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded,  and  with  a  re- 
signed air  listened  to  Sybil's  outpourings.  It  was  the  old  story. 
She  was  the  happiest  girl  alive,  and  her  lover  was  the  fondest 
and  most  devoted  a  girl  could  have.  They  were  to  live  in  unin- 
terrupted happiness  till  their  dying  day,  and  he  was  to  bring  her 
what  remained  of  the  family  diamonds,  for  her  to  say  how  she 
would  have  them  reset.  They  had  been  his  mother's  and  they 
were  now  to  be  hers,  and  he  could  not  have  endured  that  an- 
other woman  save  herself  should  have  worn  them,  he  already 
loved  her  so  much. 


Sybil's  second  love.  169 

"And  what  are  the  diamonds?"  asked  Miss  Cains,  who  was 
too  fond  of  feminine  adornment  not  to  think  this  a  very  im- 
portant and  interesting  matter. 

"  There  are  ear-rings,  very  fine  drops,  ho  says,  and  a  brooch. 
There  was  a  bracelet,  and  a  diadem,  but  his  father  was  obliged 
to  part  with  these." 

"  Ear-rings  and  a  brooch,"  echoed  Miss  Cains.  "  Lucky 
girl!"  and  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  a  gentle  sigh  heaved  her 
bosom.  "  I  should  like  diamonds,"  she  resumed,  with  much 
gravity,  "  they  are  so  bright,  so  costly,  and  so  enduring.  It  is 
something  to  wear  what  can  outlive  generations,  and  not  wither 
like  them.  Pray  go  on,  Sybil :  I  saw  some  fine  pearls  on  the 
dowager,  did  he  mention  them  ? " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  a  necklace.     They  are  small,  he  says,  but  good." 

"  Pearls,  and  black  velvet,  and  a  white  skin,"  said  Blanche. 
"  Ah  !  what  a  conjunction !  " 

She  shut  her  eyes  in  an  ecstasy,  half  assumed,  half  real. 

"  I  like  him  ten  times  better  than  his  pearls  and  diamonds," 
a  little  jealously  said  Sybil. 

"  Oh  !  of  course  you  do,  my  dear,  but  you  would  not  like  me 
to  be  so  fond  of  him  as  that,  so  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  pre- 
ferring the  pearls  and  the  diamonds,  my  love." 

It  was  impossible  to  answer  this,  so  Sybil  was  mute,  whilst 
Miss  Cains  resumed : 

"  And  what  about  the  furniture  ?  For  I  suspect  that  old 
turreted  house  to  be  rather  bare." 

"  We  are  to  go  and  take  luncheon  with  him  after  to-mor- 
row, so  we  shall  see  it,  Blanche.  And  you  will  advise  me,"  she 
added  coaxingly. 

Miss  Cains  promised  to  do  so,  but  she  looked  so  languid 
and  fatigued,  that  Sybil  could  not  help  seeing  it,  and  reluctant 
though  she  was  to  leave  her  and  retire  to  silence  and  solitude, 
Bhe  did  so.  Miss  Cains  made  no  attempt  to  detain  her,  and 
Sybil  went  down  to  the  garden,  and  wandered  and  dreamed 
there,  restless  as  a  spirit.  Every  now  and  then  she  stole  a  look 
up  at  her  friend's  window,  and  every  time  she  did  so,  she  saw 
her  motionless  figure  in  the  gray  twilight. 

"  What  a  brown  study  she  is  in  !  "  thought  Sybil  with  a 
swelling  heart.  "  She  is  like  uncle — if  they  agree  in  nothing 
else,  they  agree  in  thinking  I  cannot  be  happy  with  him,  but 
they  will  see — they  will  see,  both  of  them,  that  the  happiness 
of  fair}-  tales  will  be  nothing  to  mine." 
8 


170  sybil's  second  love. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

If  Miss  Cains  withheld  her  approbation  from  Sybil's  consent, 
it  Lad  that  of  two  more  important  persons — her  father  and  her 
aunt.  There  were  many  reasons  wrhy  Mr.  Kennedy  should  be 
pleased  with  his  future  son-in-law,  poor  though  he  was ;  and  if 
he  was  pleased,  Miss  Glyn  was  enchanted.  This  lady  had  a 
hobby,  which  she  delighted  is  riding ;  its  name  was  Capital, 
and  this  fancy  her  future  nephew  had  easily  detected,  and  could 
easily  gratify.  Commercial  enterprise  had  long  seemed  the  only 
outlet  to  his  ambition,  all  the  more  keen  that  it  was  subdued. 
Practical  knowledge  he  had  not,  for  opportunity  had  ever  failed 
him,  but  in  theory  he  far  surpassed  Miss  Glyn.  His  mind  might 
not  be  one  of  great  compass,  but  its  range,  though  narrower, 
was  deep  and  searching.  He  daily  astonished  Mr.  Kennedy  by 
the  soundness  and  the  penetration  of  his  views,  and  he  fairly 
bore  down  Miss  Glyn,  or  rather  he  so  courteously  managed  his 
victory,  that  the  lady  exulted  in  having  found  such  a  treasure. 
Little  mattered  it,  therefore,  whether  Miss  Cains  approved  or 
disapproved  a  match  so  acceptable  to  the  elder  lady.  But, 
indeed,  so  far  as  Sybil  could  see  or  know,  that  disapprobation 
had  all  passed  away.  Blanche  herself  made  light  of  it,  and  de- 
clared she  was  out  of  sorts  that  evening,  and  Sybil,  credu- 
lous and  happy  as  ever  are  the  young,  wished  to  believe  her  too 
much  not  to  do  so. 

Every  thing,  indeed,  went  on  smoothly,  save  the  weather. 
A  tempestuous  moon  had  set  in  ;  it  rained  daily,  and  the  sodden 
earth  looked  rank  in  the  gray  mist.  The  intended  visit  to  the 
manor  was  put  off  day  after  day,  and  slow  walks  in  the  arched 
galleries  of  the  cloister  supplied  the  place  of  those  summer  ram- 
bles in  the  garden  during  which  Count  de  Renneville  had  wooed 
and  Avon  his  betrothed. 

It  was  raining  heavily  one  afternoon  when  they  thus  passed 
together  the  narrow  nagged  path  which  enclosed  the  cloister  and 
its  central  cross.  Sybil  had  coaxed  her  lover  into  describing  the 
manor  to  her.  He  had  yielded,  but  with  acknowledged  reluc- 
tance.    Bare  enough  it  was,  according  to  his  account. 

"  I  would  rather  yon  had  seen  it,"  he  said  frankly,  "  for  you 
have  a  poetical  eye,  and  you  would  find  beauty  w  here  I  only  de- 
scribe barrenness." 

They  were  passing  by  the    library  windows   as  he   spoke, 


sybil's  second  love.  171 

Sybil  saw  the  long  shelves  of  books  within.  She  gave  a  fond 
look  to  that  lonely  room,  and  turning  to  the  count,  she  said 
abruptly : 

"  And  where  is  the  library  in  the  manor  ?— you  have  not 
told  me  that," 

A  quiet  smile  passed  across  his  pale,  handsome  face. 

"  Library  ?  "  he  replied — "  there  is  none." 

"  None  ? "  said  Sybil,  amazed — "  no  books  ?  " 

"  None  that  you  would  call  such,  at  least,  for  they  relate  to 
political  economy,  agriculture,  commercial  enterprise,  and  the 
rest." 

Sybil  looked  bewildered.  The  rain  splashed  on  the  flags  of 
the  cloister.  Here  and  there  a  pool  had  formed  in  some  broken 
spot ;  above  all  spread  a  dull  gray  sky,  without  even  a  passing 
cloud  to  break  its  monotony.  What  could  one  do  in  that  old 
manor  on  a  day  like  this,  if  there  was  neither  poet  to  tell  you 
of  sunshine,  and  lark  soaring  above  fields  of  corn,  nor  historian 
to  fill  your  fancy  with  the  pageantry  of  days  gone  by,  nor  nov- 
elist to  charm  you  with  some  fond  tale  of  happy  love,  and  true? 

"You  shall  have  books,"  said  the  count,  "but  I  have  for- 
sworn them.  They  tempted  and  lured  me  from  the  hard  real- 
ities of  life  to  its  dreams — I  wrote  reams  of  poetry  when  I  was 
twenty — " 

"Poetry  ?"  cried  Sybil — "  you  wrote  poetry,  and  vou  never 
told  me  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you  now — the  folly  is  passed,  and  I  can 
confess  it." 

"  Folly  ! — it  was  not  folly,"  cried  Sybil — "  oh  !  you  must 
show  me  your  verses  !  " 

"  They  are  burnt." 

"  Well,  then,  you  must  write  new  ones." 

"You  must  be  obeyed,"  he  replied,  "but  they  will  be 
dreadful  trash." 

"  Shall  I  have  them  to-morrow  ? "  asked  Sybil,  eager  as  a 
child  for  this  new  toy. 

"  To-night,  if  you  like  it ;  but  you  must  show  them  to  none 
— not  even  to  Miss  Cains.  I  will  be  as  foolish  for  you  as  \<ni 
please,  but  for  no  one  else.  Look  behind  the  cushion  of  your 
chair  after  I  am  gone,  and  you  will  find  a  ballad,  or  a  sonnet." 

Sybil  looked  at  him  with  admiring  eyes,  and  asked  when, 
then,  would  be  compose  either  sonnet  or  ballad. 

"Oh!  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time,"  he  said,  gayly ;  "but, 


172  sybil's  second  love. 

for  goodness'  sake,  breathe  not  a  word  of  this  to  your  father;  ho 
will  lose  all  belief  in  my  business  talents  if  he  once  knows  that  I 
dabble  in  poetry." 

"  I  shall  tell  no  one,"  said  Sybil,  with  sparkling  eyes ;  "  it 
shall  be  my  own  entirely.  Perhaps  I  had  better  leave  you  now, 
and  give  you  time." 

He  protested  against  this,  but  Sybil  was  too  much  afraid  of 
losing  her  verses  not  to  insist.  So  she  paced  one  side  of  the 
cloister,  whilst  he  walked  along  the  other.  She  watched  him, 
and  saw  him  stop  every  now  and  then  to  write  down  something 
on  a  leaf  he  had  torn  out  of  his  pocket-book.  Ere  half  an  hour 
had  elapsed  he  joined  her,  and  put  a  folded  slip  of  paper  in  her 
hand. 

"  Not  now,"  he  said,  as  Sybil  wanted  to  open  it — "  to-night, 
when  you  are  alone ;  you  will  feel  more  lenient  when  I  am  not 
by.     Nay,  but  you  must  promise." 

'  Sybil  promised,  a  little  reluctantly,  and  in  her  impatience 
she  said,  in  her  petulant  way  : 

"  I  will  go  to  the  manor  to-morrow,  let  the  weather  be  what 
it  will — I  will  go  to  the  manor  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so — your  wish  will  bring  us  fine 
weather." 

"  I  want  to  settle  which  room  is  to  be  the  library,"  she  con- 
tinued ;  "  for  I  will  have  books,  and  you  must  read  with  me, 
and  write  verses,  too.  Uncle  did  not  write  verses,  but  we  read 
together,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh. 

"  What,  may  I  inquire  ? " 

"  Every  thing.  Oh  !  he  is  so  learned — so  accomplished,  but 
he  does  not  write  verses." 

"  He  is  not  in  love,"  replied  the  count,  smiling — "  love  is 
the  great  teacher  and  compeller." 

"  Poor  uncle  !  "  thought  Sybil,  remembering  her  uncle's  bit- 
ter confession  ;  "  he  is  not  very  likely  to  write  verses  for  the 
lady  he  is  engaged  to,  and  yet  she  is  handsome ;  but  he  does 
not  love  her,  and  though  I  have  but  a  moderate  share  of  good 
looks,  I  am  loved — happy  girl ! " 

Happy  girl,  indeed,  when  having  retired  to  her  room  for  the 
night,  she  opened  the  folded  paper,  and  read  the  count's  verses 
with  a  beating  heart.  We  will  not  venture  on  a  rhymed  version 
of  the  lines  which  charmed  Sybil ;  prose  will  do  to  convey  their 
meaning,  and  to  show  in  what  quarter  the  lover's  inspiration 
had  found  its  way.     Brevity  was  one  of  their  merits,  for  the 


sybil's  second  love.  173 

count  had  not  Lad  time  for  either  sonnet  or  ballad.  'Thus  ran 
the  lover's  lay : 

"A  traveller  was  wrecked  on  the  shores  of  life.  The  wea- 
ried man  took  refuge  in  a  lonely  dwelling,  not  far  from  that 
whence  he  had  gone  forth  to  wrestle  with  the  world.  Stran- 
gers owned  his  ancestral  home.  He  shunned  them.  Not 
through  envy:  it  was  theirs;  hut  because  the  unhappy  care  not 
to  see  the  bliss  "of  others. 

"  Once,  however,  he  eutered  the  house  that  had  been  his  so 
long.  He  wandered  over  the  ancient  chambers,  calling  up  the 
past.  In  one  which  had  long  been  locked  up  and  unused,  he 
saw  a  fair  pearl  shining.  He  took  it  with  a  trembling  hand. 
Rash  man,  beware  !  The  pearl  is  not  yet  thine.  It  belongs  to 
the  stranger.     Till  thou  hast  it  in  thine  own  home,  boast  not." 

Poor  little  Sybil!  she  was  seventeen,  and  for  the  first  time 
verses  were  written  in  her  praise.  Her  tears,  happy  tears,  flowed 
as  she  read  these  lines,  not  once,  but  again  and  again.  She 
could  scarcely  sleep  that  night  for  thinking  of  the  blest  future 
before  her;  and  when  she  slept,  it  was  to  dream  of  it — sweet 
dreams,  full  of  a  troubled  joy. 

When  she  woke  the  next  morning  a  bright  sun  shone  in  at 
her  window.  It  lit  the  whole  landscape,  and  had  already  half 
dried  up  the  drenched  roads.  It  was  a  splendid  day,  and 
seemed  doubly  so  after  the  long  gloom  of  the  preceding  week. 

They  could  go  to  the  Manor  of  Raymond  at  length !  The 
count  early  sent  a  message  requesting  to  know  if  he  should  not 
have  the  pleasure  of  their  company,  and  Miss  Glyn  sent  back  a 
stately  promise  of  goiug. 

They  went,  and  the  whole  way  Sybil  was  in  a  dream,  now 
wonderful  her  life  had  been  since  the  days  when  she  called 
Saint  Vincent  a  dreary  old  house  ! — how  wonderful  it  would  be 
still !  That  old  Raymond,  who  had  been  a  sort  of  grand  pirate 
in  his  way,  haunted  her.  She  longed  to  see  his  portrait,  to  see, 
too,  that  strange  old  chimney,  all  covered  with  quaint  carvina', 
which  her  lover  had  described  to  her;  and  the  tree  that  grew 
in  one  of  the  old  forgotten  courts,  and  which  Denise  had  men- 
tioned, and  even  the  sober  Narcisse  admired.  She  was  sure  she 
would  like  that  gray  old  house,  which  looked  so  proud  and 
lonely  in  the  landscape. 

The  Manor  of  Raymond  was  a  gray  and  turreted  abode,  stand- 
ing aloof  from  other  dwellings,  it  laced  the  sea  to  the  west, 
and  it  Avas  sheltered  northwisc  by  a  little  green  wood.    It  looked 


174:  SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOVE. 

quaint  and  picturesque  on  that  shady  background,  but,  alas !  it 
was  bare  and  desolate  within.  Few  relics  of  the  past  wei'e  there 
in  the  manor.  Poverty  had  laid  her  cruel  hand  on  all  save  the 
stone  walls,  and  a  few  portraits  which  Pride  would  not  part 
with.  Mediaeval  treasures  had  vanished  thence,  and  gone  to 
adorn  plebeian  homes.  Something  of  this  Sybil  knew.  Denise 
had  told  her  of  the  wonderful  seven-branched  iron  candelabra, 
which  once  adorned  the  hall,  of  the  carved  oak  chairs  and  cab- 
inets, relics  of  a  feudal  race,  which  amateurs  had  keenly  striven 
for;  of  the  wonderful  old  Limoges  enamels,  and  Palissy  ware, 
and  Rouen  pottery,  which  had  gone  away  piecemeal,  and  some 
of  which  had  found  a  home  in  royal  and.  imperial  museums. 
All  this  Sybil  knew,  and  therefore  was  she  not  surprised  to  find 
an  ancient  home  poorly  and  shabbily  furnished*  with  modern 
and  commonplace  furniture.  She  cared  not.  He  was  poor,  she 
knew  it,  and  her  heart  only  yearned  the  more  toward  him,  as 
she  entered  that  old  house,  the  only  relic  of  his  ancestral  pos- 
sessions. Whilst  he  respectfully  listened  to  Miss  Glyn  on  capi- 
tal, and  to  Mr.  Kennedy  on  rape-seed,  Sybil  eagerly  looked  at 
the  portraits,  that  stamp  of  blood  and  race  of  which  Fate  had 
not  deprived  him.  They  were  bad  paintings,  and  their  worth- 
lessness  had  helped  to  save  them  ;  but  they  were  portraits,  and 
there  were  five  or  six  faces  to  remember  among  them.  At  once 
Sybil  singled  out  Raymond.  His  name  was  written  on  the 
tarnished  gilt  frame  of  his  portrait,  so  there  was  no  mistaking 
him.  Sybil  had  expected  a  warrior,  cruel  and  stern-looking — 
for  there  were  deeds  of  blood  in  this  man's  history — and  she 
saw  a  pale,  mild  countenance,  in  which  she  fancied  she  could 
trace  some  resemblance  to  her  lover ;  but  harshness,  severity, 
strength  even,  she  saw  not.  She  was  disappointed,  and  grew 
rather  pensive. 

Miss  Cains  gave  the  portraits  a  contemptuous  look,  pro- 
nounced them  daubs,  and  led  Sybil  away.  They  wandered 
up-stairs,  and  got  into  some  of  the  upper  rooms ;  these  were 
rather  dusty,  and  almost  bare. 

"  My  poor  duck,"  kindly  said  Miss  Cains,  "  you  come  to  an 
empty  nest." 

"Ah!  but  the  joy  of  making  it  warm!"  cried  Sybil  with 
sparkling  eyes. 

Miss  Cains  laughed. 

"Give  me  a  ready- feathered  nest!"  she  said  gayly ;  "  what 
business  have  women  to  bestow  ? — 'tis  their  part  to  receive." 


sybil's  second  lote.  175 

Blanche,  there  is  something  royal  in  giving-." 

"  And  yon  feel  a  little  queen,  Jo  you  ? — well,  I  was  born  a 
subject,  I  confess.     I  wonder  what  there  is  up  that  staircase  ? " 

"Garrets." 

"  Come  and  see." 

"  No— I  feel  tired." 

"  Well,  then,  I  shall  go,  and  report  my  discoveries  to  your 
majesty,  if  I  should  make  any." 

"  Do,"  a  little  languidly  replied  Sybil. 

For  once  she  was  not  sorry  to  be  alone.  She  liked  to  stand 
in  that  deep  bay-window,  and  look  on  the  green  landscape,  above 
which  rose  white  mists  of  heat,  She  liked  to  lose  herself  in  the 
fair  future,  as  calm  and  serene  as  that  aspect  of  nature.  A 
quiet  shining  river  flowed  through  the  fertile  fields ;  to  Sybil 
that  river  seemed  the  type  of  her  new  destiny.  How  she  and 
Andre  de  Renneville  would  read,  and  study,  and  talk  together, 
looking  at  that  fertile  landscape !  He  would  be  to  her  what 
her  Uncle  Edward  had  for  some  time  ceased  to  be — her  teacher 
and  her  friend.  And  then  he  wrote  such  beautiful  verses,  and 
Uncle  Edward  was  prose,  as  he  had  told  her,  so  that  sbe  gained 
rather  than  lost  by  exchanging  one  for  the  other.  A  sort  of 
remorse  came  to  Sybil  with  the  latter  thought.  It  did  not  seem 
true  to  the  old  friendship,  to  be  thus  unfavorably  contrasting 
it  with  the  new  love. 

"  And  yet,"  thought  Sybil,  "  I  asked  no  better  than  to  keep 
both — it  was  uncle  who  would  not.  He  dislikes  Andre,  and 
cannot  give  the  shadow  of  a  reason  for  it ;  and  he  keeps  away 
on  purpose — surely  I  am  not  to  blame." 

But  one  false  note  will  break  the  concord  of  the  sweetest 
sounds,  and  that  ungracious  thought  had  sent  away  Sybil's 
happy  young  dreams  adrift.  She  now  found  that  she  was  alone, 
and,  going  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  called  her  friend.  No 
one  answered.  Repeated  summonses  having  produced  no  more 
effect  than  this  first  appeal,  Sybil  got  uneasy,  and  ventured  up 
the  dark  staircase.  It  took  her  to  a  garret,  as  she  had  supposed, 
but  an  open  door,  which,  some  fagots  at  first  concealed  from 
her  view,  gave  her  the  clue  to  Blanche's  silence  and  disappear- 
ance. That  door  opened  on  another  staircase,  down  which 
Sybil  went.  It  led  her  to  the  ruined  part  of  the  manor,  and  a 
sound  of  voices,  talking  low,  helped  to  guide  her.  Ere  long 
Sybil  stood  in  a  silent  grass-grown  court,  in  the  centre  of  which 
grew  a  tall  tree,  whose  spreading  branches  made  a  green  roof 
above. 


176  Sybil's  second  love. 

"Blanche!"  she  called  eagerly,  "Blanche!" 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Count  de  Renneville  appeared, 
surprised  and  smiling. 

"  Why,  where  have  you  heen  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  have  searched 
the  whole  house  for  you;  and  where  is  Miss  Cains?" 

"Is  she  not  with  you?"  asked  Sybil.  "I  thought  I  heard 
you  talking  ? " 

"  No,  I  thought  she  was  with  you — I  shall  go  and  look  for 
her." 

He  passed  beneath  a  low  doorway,  through  which  shot  a 
gleam  of  sunshine,  and  presently  came  back. 

"  Miss  Cains  has  found  out  the  fowls,"  he  said.  "  She  did 
not  see  me — do  come  and  detect  her." 

He  let  Sybil  pass  before  him.  She  stepped  on-tiptoe  through 
the  dark  passage,  and  soon  reached  a  farmyard,  where  Miss  Cains, 
gravely  sitting  on  an  old  broken  chair,  was  engaged  in  feeding  a 
whole  flock  of  hens  and  chickens. 

"  What  a  shame  !  "  cried  Sybil ;  "  why,  here  we  have  been 
hunting  for  you." 

"Have  you?"  replied  Miss  Cains,  without  turning  round. 
"  Well,  I  have  been  here  for  some  time,  practising  my  new  voca- 
tion. Fate  declared  it  was  teaching  music,  but,  even  as  you 
found  out  awhile  ago  that  you  were  born  with  royal  inclinations, 
so  have  I  discovered  that  to  feed  hens  is  my  proper  duty.  You 
are  Sarah,  which  means  princess,  I  believe ;  and  I  am  Agar, 
which  probably  means  bondswoman." 

Sybil  was  so  surprised  at  this  speech  that,  instead  of  answer- 
ing her  friend,  she  looked  at  the  count,  half  inquiringly.  He 
seemed  equally  surprised  with  herself,  and  rather  confused. 

"  It  is  too  bad  of  Blanche  to  talk  so,"  thought  Sybil.  "  Of 
course  I  do  not  take  it  amiss,  but  strangers  must  think  it  odd." 

"  There,  I  have  done  with  you  ! "  scornfully  said  Miss  Cains, 
seeming  to  address  the  hens,  and  rising  as  she  spoke ;  "  you  are 
no  doubt  delightful  company,  but,  somehow  or  other,  you  cannot 
content  me." 

Sybil  stayed  in  the  rear  to  take  the  arm  of  Blanche  Cains, 
and  whisper : 

"  What  is  it  ? — what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  What  is  what,  you  dear  little  ninny?"  ashed  Miss  Cains, in 
her  grand,  disdainful  way,  for  Sybil's  mental  weakness. 

"  But  I  know  there  is  something,"  persisted  Sybil — "  I  am 
cure  of  it.     Has  he  annoyed  you  ? " 


sybil's  second  love.  177 

She  looked  at  the  count,  who  was  walking  before  them,  clear- 
ing the  stones  from  their  path. 

"  How  could  so  perfect  a  Paladin  annoy  me  ? "  asked  Miss 
Cains,  gaylv. 

"Well,  then,  what  is  it?" 

Blanche  laughed,  and  gave  Sybil  a  kiss,  and  called  her  little 
countess,  and,  in  short,  would  hear  no  more  on  the  subject. 

The  rest  of  the  day  produced  nothing,  and  to  Sybil  was  as  a 
delightful  dream.  But  from  that  day  forth  all  show  of  cordiality, 
kindness,  and  good-will  ceased  between  Miss  Cains  and  the  be- 
trothed of  her  friend.  With  dismay  Sybil  saw  that  they  jarred 
and  differed  almost  incessantly — oftener  in  looks  than  in  words. 
She  spoke  first  to  Blanche,  who  flatly  denied  it;  then  to  Count 
de  Renneville,  who  smiled,  and  tried  to  put  her  off;  but  Sybil 
would  not  be  put  oft",  and  with  pretty  despotism  insisted  on  an 
answer.     He  gave  it  at  length,  but  with  evident  reluctance. 

"  On  my  word,"  he  said,  "  I  should  be  too  happy  to  be  friends 
with  your  friend,  if  she  would  let  me,  but  she  will  not.  I  have 
displeased  her  I  am  sure,  but  how  I  cannot  imagine.  Has  she 
told  you?" 

"  No — she  denies  it." 

"  Then  how  can  I  explain  or  apologize,  if  I  do  not  know  my 
sin?" 

"And  are  you  really  willing  to  apologize  ? "  asked  Sybil,  her 
eyes  sparkling. 

"  Can  you  doubt  it? — is  she  not  a  lady,  and  your  dearest 
friend  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  shall  give  you  an  opportunity  to  do  so." 

"Pray,  how  do  you  mean  to  manage?" 

"I  know — I  know,"  merrily  replied  Sybil,  and  she  would  say 
no  more. 

Count  dc  Renneville  seemed  struck  with  a  sudden  thought. 

"  Pray  excuse  the  question  I  am  going  to  put,  he  said,  "  but 
does  not  that  uncle  of  yours,  whom  I  never  see,  admire  Miss 
Cains  ? " 

Sybil  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Why,  he  scarcely  knows  her,"  she  replied — "  of  course  he 
admires  her,  but  so  does  every  one,  she  is  so  handsome  ;  only,  I 
am  sure,  his  admiration  is  just  as  disinterested  as  yours." 

"Perhaps  he  would  tell  you  nothing  about  it,"  skeptically 
replied  her  lover. 

"  But  Blanche  would — besides,  why  do  you  put  the  question  .;" 
8* 


178  sybil's  secoxd  love. 

"  I  was  so  unlucky  once  as  to  reflect  on  the  color  of  that 
gentleman's  hair,  and  I  feared  Miss  Cains  had  taken  affront." 

"Oh!  not  at  that,"  sighed  Sybil ;  "she  is  always  finding 
fault  with  his  hair  and  his  eyes,  and  it  is  a  shame." 

"  Why  so,  pray  ?  " 

"Because  Uncle  Edward  has  beautiful  hair,"  said  Sybil, 
warmly — "  deep  gold." 

"  Red  gold  ?  "  suggested  the  count. 

"  No,  deep  gold  ;  and  he  has  beautifid  eyes — gray,  brilliant, 
and  clear  honest  eyes,  that  look  into  one's  face  without  shrink- 
ing, and  I  do  wish  Blanche  liked  him.  '  I  had  set  my  heart  up- 
on it,  and  she  scorns  him.  Oh !  no — that  is  not  how  you  affront- 
ed her." 

"  Then  I  confess  I  am  at  a  loss." 

"  Never  mind.  Perhaps  she  will  tell  you — I  will  give  you 
the  opportunity,  you  know." 

He  wanted  to  know  again  how  the  opportunity  was  to  be 
given  him,  but  Sybil  was  full  of  mysteries,  and  woidd  tell  him 
nothing. 

The  verv  next  dav,  however,  Sybil's  betrothed  learned  how 
that  young  lady  meant  to  manage.  In  the  very  midst  of  a  con- 
versation between  herself,  the  count,  and  Miss  Cains,  she  was 
called  away  by  Denise,  who  summoned  her  with  a  mysterious, 
"  Mademoiselle's  poor  woman  is  below."  Sybil  started  up  in  a 
sudden  hurry,  and  saying  eagerly,  "I  am  coming  back  very 
soon,"  she  was  gone  before  Miss  Cains  could  attempt  to  follow 
her. 

"  Have  I  not  managed  it  well  ? "  exultingly  thought  Sybil, 
as  she  skipped  down  the  staircase,  and  went  to  the  hall,  where 
she  found  one  of  her  pensioners,  a  decent  widow,  whom  Sybil 
had  sent  for  on  the  count's  arrival. 

"  Come  with  me  to  my  room,"  said  Sybil,  eagerly — "  I  have 
such  a  parcel  for  you  !  " 

And  so  she  had.  Sybil  had  a  generous  nature.  It  was  an 
exquisite  pleasure  for  her  to  bestow.  She  had  plundered  her- 
self to  make  the  widow's  parcel  the  more  acceptable,  and  though 
some  want  of  judgment  was  shown  in  the  selection  of  a  few  arti- 
cles, she  had  succeeded  iu  the  main.  The  widow's  eyes  sparkled 
as  she  saw  this  thing  and  that;  for  this  wrould  do  for  Marie, 
and  that  would  suit  Catherine  to  perfection. 

'  You  are  pleased — you  are  glad  !  "  cried  Sybil  with  spark- 
ling eyes.     "  Well,  so  am  I,  so  am  I ! " 


sybil's  secoxd  love.  179 

And  she  was  glad,  indeed.  She  thought  that  whilst  she  was 
gladdening  the  widow's  heart  up-stairs,  they  were  making  it  up 
below,  and  that  henceforth  there  would  be  peace  and  amity  be- 
tween her  lover  and  her  friend.  "Whea  the  widow's  transports 
had  subsided,  and  her  parcel  was  tied  up  again,  she  departed 
with  it ;  and  Sybil,  feeling  she  had  left  them  alone  quite  long 
enough,  went  back  to  the  drawing-room.  She  found  them  in 
friendly  converse,  looking  thoroughly  good-humored,  and  evi- 
dently on  excellent  terms.  Sybil  looked  very  demure  and  un- 
conscious, untU  she  found  an  opportunity  of  saying  privately  to 
Count  de  Renneville, 

"  Well,  have  you  made  it  up  ? " 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  replied.  "  Miss  Cains  has  refused  to  let  me 
know  my  offence,  but  she  has  magnanimously  forgiven  it." 

To  Blanche  Sybil  spoke  more  freely,  but  got  no  more  out  of 
her. 

"  I  was  not  affronted  at  all,"  a  little  impatiently  replied  Miss 
Cains ;  "  but,  of  course  if  my  manner  implied  I  was,  it  is  all 
wrong,  and  I  must  mend  it.  I  promised  the  count  I  would  do 
so,  and  I  began  at  once,  and  so  there  is  an  end  of  it ;  and  good- 
night." 

"  Ah !  but  did  I  not  manage  cleverly  ? "  asked  Sybil,  not 
willing  to  lose  the  glory  of  her  little  artifice.  "  You  would 
have  both  gone  on  sulking  forever  but  for  me." 

"  So  you  left  us  alone  on  purpose  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  did ;  and  did  I  not  do  well  ? " 

She  looked  up  rather  saucily  in  the  face  of  Blanche  Cain?, 
who  smiled  abstractedly.  She  held  a  light  in  one  hand,  and 
laid  her  other  hand — and  though  not  a  small  hand,  it  was  a 
handsome  one,  with  white  fingers,  slender  and  firm — on  the 
supple  shoulder  of  her  friend. 

"  I  wish  I  were  like  you,  Sybil,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  I  were — 
and  I  wish  you  would  not  marry  Count  de  Renneville  ! " 

"  What ! "  cried  Sybil,  rather  indignant. 

"  Yes,  I  wish  you  would  not,"  continued  Miss  Cains,  with 
perfect  tranquillity  of  look,  and  tone,  and  manner;  "he  is  not 
good  enough  for  you.  Now  don't  mistake  me;  he  is  quite 
gentlemanlike,  and  accomplished,  and  delightful,  and  he  would 
do  very  well  for  a  girl  like  me,  for  instance,  and  be  quite  good 
enough;  but  you  ought  to  have  something  better.  A  finer, 
larger,  greater  nature.  Pity  Green  eyes  is  your  uncle  !  I  should 
say,  '  Have  him,  by  all  means  ! '  " 


180  sybil's  second  love. 

"Blanche! — Blanche  ! "  cried  Sybil,  flushed  and  angry, 
"  what  are  you  saying  ? " 

"  Nonsense,  I  dare  say,"  replied  Miss  Cains,  with  a  slight 
yawn  ;  "  don't  mind  me — but  at  times  I  am  like  the  Sybil, 
child — a  voice  which  is  not  mine  own  speaks  from  within  me. 
And  don't  mind  what  I  said  about  the  count,  he  never  was  like 
Judas,  and  it  is  you,  silly  little  thing,  who  are  not  good  enough 
for  him — and  as  for  Greeneyes,  you  know,  child,  he  is  my 
aversion." 

She  kissed  her,  and  slowly  left  the  room,  and  Sybil  knelt 
and  said  her  prayers,  and  went  to  bed  ;  but  as  she  prayed,  and 
undressed,  and  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow,  a  strange  vexing 
thought  ever  came  back.  At  length  she  resolutely  said  it  nay, 
and  fell  fast  asleep. 


--♦-♦*- 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

From  that  day  forward  the  count  and  Miss  Cains  were  on 
much  better  terms.  And  yet  something  was  wanting,  and  Sybil 
saw  it,  but  not  what  that  something  was.  She  often  looked  at 
them  in  doubt,  and  like  one  perplexed.  Why  was  the  count 
so  civil  to  Miss  Cains,  and  yet  so  silent  concerning  her  when 
she  was  not  by  ?  Never  could  Sybil  make  him  speak  on  that 
subject,  and  Blanche  was  equally  reserved.  Was  the  war  still 
going  on,  and  the  truce  but  a  hollow  one  ? — but  why  did  they 
both  hide  from  her  ?•  Often  she  looked  at  them  wistfully,  but 
neither  seemed  to  read  these  looks ;  and  certainly  by  neither 
were  they  answered. 

And  thus  time  passed ;  and  as  it  was  not  to  be  a  long  court- 
ship, the  wedding-day  was  fast  coming  on. 

Miss  Glyn  had  forgotten  capital  in  the  excitement  of  pro- 
viding her  niece  with  all  that  was  requisite  for  a  bride  and  a 
countess,  and  Mr.  Kennedy  having  liberally  opened  the  strings 
of  his  purse,  her  task  was  indeed  no  light  one.  Miss  Cains  was 
almost  as  much  interested  in  this  part  of  the  proceedings  as 
.Miss  Glyn  herself,  and  both  helped  to  worry  Sybil.  Her  only 
happy  moments  were  those  she  spent  with  her  lover,  far  from 
the  cares  of  dress  and  bridal  state.  The  sweetness,  the  tender 
ness  of  Count  Andre  de  Renneville  were  all  his  mistress  could 


SYBIL  S  SECOND  LOVE.  181 

wish,  She  felt  he  had  taken  her  to  his  heart,  and  that  she 
would  lie  there  secure. 

Her  veneration  for  his  high  honor,  for  his  gentlemanlike 
character,  increased  daily,  and  with  it  her  reliance  on  his  deep 
and  sincere  affection.  That  he  was  reserved,  that  he  would 
write  poetry  and  read  with  her  more  to  please  her  than  to 
please  himself,  Sybil  saw ;  but  she  could  not  help  it,  and  did 
not  care  to  do  so.  Such  as  he  was  she  liked  him,  and  as  there 
had  always  been  a  tender  compassion  in  her  love,  she  liked  him 
none  the  less  that  he  wanted  her  more.  Never  had  this  feeling 
been  stronger  upon  her  than  on  an  autumn  evening,  when  she 
walked  by  his  side  in  her  father's  garden.  Count  de  Renneville 
was  obliged  to  leave  her  early,  and  Sybil  was  going  to  let  him 
out  by  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  garden. 

"  We  shall  come  this  way,"  said  her  lover,  gently  pressing 
her  arm. 

She  knew  what  he  meant — this  was  the  path  they  would 
follow  when  they  came  to  see  her  father,  a  married  pair. 

She  had  not  answered  him,  but  he  stooped  and  looked  in 
her  face  with  a  smile. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  quietly,  "  we  shall  walk  along  this  path  ;  " 
then  she  added,  "  I  feel  in  a  dream,  Andre — we  are  to  be  mar- 
ried in  a  few  days — it  is  incredible." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

"  Because  a  few  months  ago  I  had  heard  of  you — no  more. 
I  had  not  seen  you — and  now  it  is  impossible  to  think  of  being 
divided  from  you." 

"Ay,  it  is  indeed  impossible;  but  for  all  that  I  shall  not 
think  you  safe  till  I  have  you  fast." 

"  You  arc  jesting." 

"  I  am  not.  You  do  not  know  how  often  I  have  been  dis- 
appointed." 

"  What !  have  you  really  been  so  often  near  marriage  ?  " 
demurely  asked  Sybil. 

"  Why,  no — that  is  to  say,  not  very  often." 

"  Not  very  often,  sir  !  " 

"  You  do  not  call  half  a  dozen  times  often  ? " 

And  he  look  round  and  smiled  very  composedly. 

"  I  shall  remind  you  of  that  some  day  !  "  threateningly  ^:ii«l 
Sybil  ;  "  mind,  I  say  it  and  I  mean  it." 

He  bowed,  and  resumed  with  a  half  sigh  : 

"  Mine  has  been  a  dreary  life,  Sybil,  and  you  are  my  first 


182  sybil's  second  love. 

ray  of  sunshine  ;  do  not  wonder  I  fear  lest  a  cloud  should  come 
between  us — suppose  your  father  and  your  aunt  should  inter- 
fere, and  say  nay,  at  the  eleventh  hour  ? " 

"  But  I  should  never  say  no ! "  cried  Sybil,  looking  up  in 
his  face,  all  ardor  and  all  truth  !  "  I  should  be  true  and  say  yes 
forever  and  ever." 

She  shook  with  emotion.  He  took  her  hand,  and  softly 
stroked  it  between  his.  He  looked  moved — very  much  moved, 
and,  with  a  sigh,  he  said, 

"  How  good  you  are  !  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  good,"  cried  Sybil,  "  but  I  am  true." 

They  had  reached  the  door  at  which  they  were  to  part.  He 
took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  bade  her  adieu,  and  walked  away 
along  the  solitary  road  that  led  to  his  old  manor.  Sybil  stood 
and  looked  after  him  long.  She  watched  his  figure  lessening 
along  the  road,  and  she  never  forgot  that  sad  landscape,  and 
that  gray  sky,  when  a  pale  moon  rose  in  the  dim  mist.  Her 
heart  was  full  of  him  and  his  fears.  Why  did  he  so  dread  los- 
ing her  ? — was  she  not  his  as  surely  as  if  their  marriage  vows 
had  been  spoken  ? 

"  I  wish  I  had  said  more  to  comfort  him,"  she  thought,  as 
she  walked  back  ;  "  but  I  am  stupid,  and  so  cold." 

She  was  displeased  with  herself,  and  for  once  she  found  it 
pleasant  to  turn  from  her  own  thoughts  to  the  matters  which 
absorbed  Miss  Glyn  and  Miss  Cains.  She  found  the  two  ladies 
engaged  in  a  lively,  though  by  no  means  unfriendly  discussion, 
concerning  the  respective  merits  of  red  and  blue.  Miss  Glyn 
was  for  red — Miss  Cains  was  faithful  to  her  favorite  blue  ;  as  the 
shawl,  an  Indian  one,  was  for  Sybil,  that  young  lady  was  called 
upon  to  decide.  Two  magnificent  specimens  of  the  skill  of 
Cashmere  were  placed  before  her.  The  red  was  gorgeous,  the 
blue  was  exquisitely  delicate.  Miss  Glyn  held  one,  Blanche  the 
other,  and  Sybil  sat  and  looked  at  either,  and  knew  not  how  to 
decide. 

"  Now  is  not  that  border  perfection?"  asked  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Now,  Sybil,  look  at  these  pink  flowers  creeping  up  into 
that  field  of  blue,"  cried  Blanche,  eagerly. 

"  They  are  both  lovely,"  said  Sybil,  much  perplexed — "  I 
wish  I  knew  which  to  choose." 

"  My  dear,  I  wonder  you  do  not  see  how  much  finer  this  is," 
gravely  said  Miss  Glyn. 

"Ah  !  but  look  at  the  edge  of  this  !  "  cried  Blanche. 


sybil's  second  love.  183 

Sybil  looked,  and  agreed  with  both.  Yes,  the  red  shawl 
was  tine,  and  the  blue  shawl  was  fine  too,  and  they  were  too 
expensive  to  have  both,  and  she  did  not  know  which  to  take. 

"  I  wish  I  had  some  third  person  to  advise  me,"  she  said,  a 
little  crossly,  and  soon  getting  wearied  of  the  excitement  at- 
tending the  selection. 

The  door  of  the  drawing-room  opened,  and  her  Uncle  Ed- 
ward entered  the  apartment,  as  if  to  answer  Sybil's  wish.  She 
sat  with  her  back  to  him,  and  did  not  turn  round  at  once,  so  he 
had  full  time  to  receive  Miss  Glyn's  withering  glance,  and  to 
answer  it  by  a  bow  of  the  greatest  composure,  before  Sybil  saw 
him.  She  gave  a  little  joyful  cry,  and  started  to  her  feet  with  a 
ready  exclamation. 

"  Uncle,  uncle,  I  am  so  glad  ! — you  have  a  beautiful  taste  in 
dress — tell  me  which  of  these  two  shawls  to  choose." 

"  Now,  there's  an  honest  welcome  !  "  replied  her  uncle, 
shaking  his  heavy  hair  ;  "  I  am  invaluable  because  I  return  just 
in  time  to  assist  you.  Pray  am  I  also  to  decide  between  pearls 
and  diamonds  ?  "  he  added,  looking  at  the  table,  on  which  the 
costly  jewels  lay  sparkling,  "  or  between  Brussels  and  Honi- 
ton  ? "  he  continued,  glancing  at  a  heap  of  laces  on  a  chair. 

"Neither,"  a  little  disdainfully  said  Sybil — "  I  fear,  uncle, 
you  are  no  judge  after  all." 

"  Not  of  minute  details,  my  dear,  certainly." 

"  Miss  Glyn  indignantly  threw  the  red  shawl  on  a  chair,  and 
walked  out  of  the  room. 

"  Have  you  dined,  uncle  ?  "  timidly  asked  Sybil,  for  she  felt 
that  her  reception  of  her  uncle  had  not  been  what  it  should  be. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  have,  thank  you." 

"  What  dull  weather  it  is  to  travel  in  ! " 

"  Yes,  very." 

Sybil  looked  pitifully  toward  Blanche,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Do  help  me  to  carry  on  this  lame  conversation,"  but  Miss 
Cains's  flowing  skirt  was  even  then  vanishing  in  the  closing  door. 

"  Do  not  leave  me,  Sybil,"  quickly  said  her  uncle. 

"  No,  uncle." 

"  And  come  here,  and  sit  by  me.     I  wish  to  talk  to  you." 

Sybil  obeyed,  and  stood  by  his  side. 

"  Are  you  afraid  to  sit  ? "  he  asked,  gravely  ;  "  we  used  to 
be  better  friends  once,  Sybil." 

Sybil  reddened,  and  drew  a  chair  near  him. 

"  I  have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  you,"  he  began  ;  "  in  the 


184:  sybil's  second  love. 

first  place,  why  is  Miss  Cains  still  here?     She  does  not  mean  to 
remain  forever,  does  she  ?  " 

"  What  if  she  did  ?  "  asked  Sybil,  half  angry. 
"  Well,  well,  it  is  not  of  her  I  mean  to  speak,  so  let  it  be." 
And  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  her  so  strangely,  that 
Sybil's  heart  began  to  beat,  and  she  felt  the  coming  of  a  grief. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  butcher  strokes  and  caresses  the  lamb  he 
is  going  to  murder  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  wistful 
look.  "  But  oh  !  Sybil,  I  do  feel  such  a  longing  to  take  you 
to  my  heart,  and  caress  you  ! — and  yet  I,  too,  am  going  to  kill !  " 
"  Uncle,  uncle,"  gasped  Sybil,  "  what  is  it — what  can  it  be  ?" 
He  took  her  hand,  and  softly  stroking  it  between  his  own, 
he  said, 

"  Do  you  love  him  very  much  ? " 
"  Yes,"  answered  Sybil,  bravely,  "  I  do." 
"  Oh  !  Sybil,  what  a  pity  !     My  poor  child  !  what  a  pity, 
for  you  must  give  him  up  !  " 

"  Never !  "  cried  Sybil.     "  Never,  and  I  do  not  believe  you ! 
You  never  liked  him,  and  I  will  not  believe  a  word  of  it !  " 
She  looked  defiant  and  scornful,  but  he  did  not  seem  offended. 
"  Poor  child  !  "  he  said,  "  poor  child !  "  iind  he  tried  to  take 
again  the  hand  she  had  indignantly  snatched  from  his.      But 
Sybil  withdrew  her  hand  very  coldly. 
"  You  do  not  believe  me  ? "  he  said. 
"  No." 

"  Shall  I  give  you  proof  that  this  man  is  unworthy  of  your 
affections,  and  worthy  only  of  your  contempt  ?  " 

Sybil  turned  pale  as  death,  and  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 
"  No,"  she  said,  at  length.  "  It  is  not  true — it  cannot  be  !  " 
"  Shall  I  give  you  proof,  Sybil  ?  " 

Sybil  gave  him  a  piteous,  frightened  look.  Had  he  proof? 
could  he  really  lay  her  girlish  idol  low,  and  thus  desecrate  her 
first  worship  in  the  realm  of  true  love  ? 

"  1  will  have  no  proof  !  "  she  cried,  impetuously.  "  I  will 
believe  in  him  ! " 

"And  be  deceived,.  Sybil  ?  " 

"  But  I  cannot  be  deceived  !  We  parted,  all  trust  and  af- 
fection, an  hour  ago,  his  only  fear  that  he  should  lose  me.  I 
cannot  be  deceived  !  He  is  all  goodness,  all  honor,  and  he 
loves  me." 

"  He  loves  your  money,  child  !  " 

Oh  !  cruel  words  !     He  loved  her  money  !     She  was  young, 


Sybil's  secoxd  love.  185 

pretty,  and  well  brought  up,  and  money  was  her  value  !  She 
gave  him  an  imploring  look,  which  his  shunned. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  "  I  cannot  spare  you.  I  am  too  fond  of 
you  to  let  that  man  have  you.  I  came  back  to  save  you. 
Your  father  is  blind,  your  aunt  is  bent  on  seeing  you  a  countess, 
I  must  appeal  to  your  good  sense  and  your  pride.  Will  you 
hear  me  ? " 

"  I  shall  not  believe  you,"  deliberately  said  Sybil ;  "  but 
you  may  speak." 

"  You  brave  and  noble  little  creature  !  "  he  said,  with  spark- 
ling eves.     "  How  could  he  not  love  you  ?  " 

Sybil  rose  and  looked  at  him  indignantly. 

"I  do  not  want  to  hear  my  praises,"  she  said ;  " and  I  will 
not  hear  a  word  against  him.  If  you  have  proof,  give  it,  uncle, 
but  do  not  utter  unproved  accusations." 

He  silently  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  handed  her  a  scrap 
of  paper,  minutely  folded.  It  was  in  his  writing,  she  knew  it. 
but  there  was  no  envelope,  yet  it  was  a  letter.  It  was  very 
short,  and  ran  thus  : 

"I  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  and  that  I  would  rather  go  to 
ruin  with  you  than  to  fortune  with  her.  You  doubt  it  1  Well, 
then,  try  me !  " 

These  lines  were  not  signed,  but  Sybil  knew  the  writing,  she 
could  have  sworn  to  it.  It  was  the  writing  of  the  fond  little 
notes  she  got  every  morning,  of  the  graceful  verses  she  kept 
amongst  her  choicest  treasures.  Still  she  would  not  confess 
herself  conquered. 

"  There  is  no  name  to  this,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  know  to 
whom  it  is  addressed,  nor  when  it  was  written.  I  will  not  con- 
demn him  upon  that  proof." 

Her  uncle  Edward  took  back  the  letter  from  her,  and 
looked  at  it  attentively.  There  was  indeed  neither  name,  nor 
signature,  nor  date  affixed  to  it,  He  knit  his  brows,  whilst 
Sybil  looked  at  him  triumphantly.  Suddenly  he  raised  the 
paper,  and  holding  it  between  him  and  the  light  of  the  lamp,  he 
scanned  it  attentively. 

"Look  at  the  water-mark,"  he  said. 

Mechanically  Sybil  did  as  she  was  bid.  She,  too,  held  the 
paper  up,  and  there,  in  pale  characters,  woven  in  its  texture,  she 
read  the  date  of  the  year.  Nay,  more,  she  recognized _  1  lie 
English  paper  her  father  used.  'That  letter  had  been  written 
since  January,  and  in  that  house.     It  was  the  contemporary  of 


186  sybil's  second  love. 

her  letters,  of  the  verses,  of  her  fondest  and  most  tender 
epistles. 

Sybil  felt  sick,  her  brain  swam,  her  lips  were  parched  and 
dry,  then  she  made  one  last  effort  to  save  her  perishing  love. 

"  It  is  a  forgery  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  it  is  a  forgery  !  " 

"  Ask  him,  Sybil,"  said  her  uncle  in  a  low  tone,  "  ask  lain 
to-morrow." 

Sybil  sank  down  on  a  chair,  and  moaned  in  her  anguish.  So 
he  was  false,  he,  a  gentleman  of  ancient  descent  and  spotless 
honor,  the  hero  of  her  young  dreams  !  He  was  false,  false  to 
the  heart's  core,  and  her  money  was  all  in  all  to  his  sordid  soul. 
And  he  looked  so  chivalrous  and  so  true  ! 

Oh  !  Sybil,  you  do  not  know  poverty  and  its  grim  tempta- 
tions. You  do  not  know  man's  abhorrence  for  that  cruel  tyrant. 
Eighteen  hundred  years  ago  she  was  j>ronounced  blessed,  and 
what  has  it  availed  us  ?  Man  goes  on  worshipping  gold  in 
Christian  communities,  and  striving  for  the  prizes  of  life  with 
heathenish  ardor.  Oh  !  money,  yon  are  beauty,  and  virtue,  and 
fame,  and  health,  and  all  good  things ! 

For  the  first  time  Sybil  learned  this  bitter  lesson.  It  was 
her  money,  not  herself,  that  her  betrothed  wanted,  and  how 
could  she  forgive  him  the  ignoble  longing  ?  She  had  thought 
herself  beloved,  though  rich,  and  now  the  truth  appeared. 
No  fair  shining  goddess,  but  a  foul  witch,  hideous  and  loath- 
some ! 

"  0  God,  help  me  !  "  she  moaned  again  and  again  ;  "  how 
could  he  do  it ! — how  could  he  do  it  *  " 

She  did  not  weep,  but  sobbed  till  her  whole  frame  shook. 

"Ay,  how  could  he  do  it?"  echoed  her  uncle.  "  I  wish 
you  could  cry,  Sybil." 

She  did  not  heed  him.  She  let  him  draw  her  toward  him, 
and  caress  her  with  looks  full  of  pity,  and  still  she  kept  moan- 
ing, "How  could  he  do  it?  "  At  length  her  head  sank  on  her 
breast,  and  her  tears  flowed,  wild,  passionate  tears,  that  brought 
no  relief. 

"  How  you  loved  that  traitor  !  "  said  her  uncle  a  little  mood- 
ily. 

"I  believed  in  him  !  "  she  exclaimed  pitifully,  "and  he  was 
false — false  !  Uncle,  how  did  you  get  that  letter  ? — to  whom 
did  he  write  it?" 

She  fastened  on  him  a  look  that  burned  like  flame. 

"  I  got  it,  Sybil — how,  it  matters  little,  I  will  tell  you,  if  you 
like,  to  whom  it  was  written — I  mean,  if  you  do  not  know  it." 


sybil's  second  love.  187 

Sybil's  lips  quivered. 

"Tell  ine  nothing,"  she  said  in  alow  voice,  "I  want  to  know 
nothing." 

"And  you  must  mention  this  to  no  one,  Sybil — to  no  one 
save  M.  de  Renneville,  or  you  willl  cause  irreparable  mischief." 

"  I  shall  not,"  she  replied  apathetically.  "  I  will  show  it  to 
him  to-morrow — and  then  it  will  be  all  over — all  over  ! " 

"She  wrung  her  hands  in  her  anguish.  He  had  never  loved 
her — never !  He  had  deceived  her  all  the  time — all  the  time  she 
had  been  a  poor  deluded  girl,  whose  fondness  wearied  him,  or 
whom  he  secretly  laughed  at. 

"  Ah  !  I  have  been  too  harsh — too  abrupt ! "  exclaimed 
Uncle  Edward,  with  something  like  remorse  in  his  tone  ;  "  I 
should  have  softened  the  truth." 

"  No,"  she  interrupted,  "  I  can  bear  the  truth — it  is  falsehood 
that  kills,  uncle." 

"And  suspense,"  he  added  in  a  low  tone.  "You  think 
yourself  wretched,  Sybil ;  and  so  you  are,  but  oh !  that  I  were 
like  you ! " 

For  a  moment  she  forgot  her  grief,  and  looked  hard  at  him. 
His  eyes  were  bent  on  the  lire,  his  cheeks  rested  on  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  his  face  was  rigid  and  stern. 

"  If  my  trouble  could  but  ease  yours,"  he  said,  looking  round 
at  her,  "  but  it  cannot  be  ;  your  grief  is  none  the  lighter  for  the 
burden  which  I  must  bear." 

"  Is  she,  too,  false  ? "  asked  Sybil,  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  No,  for  if  she  were,  I  should  be  free.  Oh  !  Sybil,  your 
heart  is  aching,  but  how  I  envy  you  ! — liberty,  any  thing  for 
liberty — any  thing  for  the  abhorred  yoke  to  be  broken  !  " 

He  spoke  with  suppressed  passion.  Sybil  shuddered,  and 
drew  away  from  him. 

"  How  ? — why  so  ? "  he  asked,  quickly. 

"  Because  you  are  like  him,"  she  half-whispered — "  that  is 
what  he  feels  now  when  I  am  by : — '  liberty — any  thing  for 
liberty — any  thing  for  the  abhorred  yoke  to  be  broken  ! '  " 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  full  of  regret,  "  I  wish  I  had  been 
silent;  but,  my  child,  never  compare  yourself  to  her — never 
compare  me  to  that  man.  There  is  no  likeness.  He  puts  by  a 
rare  gem  for  a  false  diamond,  and  I  loathe  the  stone  I  had 
chosen,  because  it  is  worthless." 

"  So  speaks  all  faithlessness,  and  so,  I  have  no  doubt,  he 
speaks  too,"  said  Sybil,  very  bitterly  ;  "  I  am  no  pearl  in  his 


188  Sybil's  secoxd  love. 

eyes,  but  a  worthless  stone — well,  uncle,  you,  too,- have  helped 
to  give  me  a  hard  lesson.  There  is  no  truth  in  man — he  was 
horn  false  and  faithless  !  " 

She  spoke  with  a  dreary  emphasis  that  stung  him.  He  sat 
poking  the  fire  in  his  old  way,  his  bent  face  flushed,  perhaps 
with  the  heat  of  the  blazing  logs — perhaps  with  the  feeling  her 
words  had  called  up. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said  at  length,  "  you  will  know  all  some  day, 
and  not  judge  me  so  severely — " 

"And  what  do  I  care  ? "  she  interrupted,  with  a  moan  ;  "  I 
was  happy,  and  you  came  and  robbed  me  of  my  happiness — 
what  is  any  thing  else  to  me  ?  Be  true,  be  false,  I  care  not — it 
is  her  lookout,  not  mine." 

"  Sybil,  I  thought  you  cared  for  me." 

"  I  do  not !  "  she  exclaimed  passionately — "  I  do  not — I  care 
but  for  my  own  sorrow  ;  be  wretched,  blest,  is  not  all  over  for 
me — forever  and  forever  ?  " 

She  looked  up,  as  if  appealing  to  Heaven  in  the  anguish  of 
her  heart ;  he  looked  at  her,  and  forgot  the  bitterness  of  her 
words  in  pity  for  her  grief.  Uncle  Edward's  gray  eyes  flashed  ; 
he  bit  his  lip,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  his  pale  face.  He  hated 
her  wronger  then  with  man's  fierce,  revengeful  hate,  and  longed 
to  crush  and  destroy  him. 

"  My  darling  ! — my  poor  lamb  ! "  he  said,  softly. 

She  turned  round,  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  cried 
as  if  her  heart  would  break.  "When  her  tears  ceased,  and  she 
raised  her  flushed  face  from  his  shoulder,  and  met  his  grave  look 
full  of  tender  pity,  a  sort  of  peace  came  over  her  poor  bruised 
heart. 

"  Ah  !  how  good — how  kind  you  are  ! "  she  said — "  why 
was  he  not  true  like  you  ?  " 

"  "Wipe  your  tears,  Sybil,"  he  Avhispered — "  some  one  is 
coming." 

But  Sybil  could  face  no  one  then.  She  rose,  and  left  the 
drawing-room  by  one  door  as  Miss  Glyn  entered  it  by  another. 
She  met  no  one  on  the  way,  and  could  rush  to  her  girlish  sanc- 
tuary, and  lock  herself  into  it,  and  feel  safe  against  intrusion. 
She  threw  herself  in  a  deep  arm-chair,  and  buried  her  face  on 
the  pillow,  and  sat  thus  till  the  dinner-bell  rang;  she  then  sent 
down  word  that  she  had  a  bad  headache,  and  could  not  come. 

When  Denise  delivered  the  message,  Miss  Glyn  <zn\o  Sybil's 
uncle  an  indignant  look,  as  if  taxing  him  w  ith  Sybil's  headache  ; 


stbil's  second  love.  189 

he  returned  the  look  with  one  tolerably  cold  and  severe.  Miss 
Cains  watched  them  curiously,  but  Mr.  Kennedy  saw  nothing. 
He  was  full  of  concern  at  his  darling's  headache. 

"What  can  have  given  Pussy  that  headache?"  he  said — 
"  sbe  was  as  gay  and  as  light  as  a  lark  this  afternoon.  You  are 
half  a  doctor,  Edward ;  go  up  and  prescribe  to  her." 

"  Sybil  would  not  follow  my  prescription,"  was  the  cold 
reply. 

"  But  tbe  child  must  dine,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy. 

"  Shall  I  try  and  persuade  her  to  come  down  ?  "  asked 
Blanche,  half  rising. 

"  Ay,  do,  pray,  Miss  Cains.     Tell  Pussy  I  want  her." 

Miss  Cains  rose  and  went,  but  sbe  soon  returned,  Sybil  had 
refused  to  let  her  in.  Mr.  Kennedy  looked  perplexed,  and  Miss 
Glyn  half  angry. 

"I  shall  go,"  she  said. 

"  Why  tease  the  poor  girl  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  remarked  Miss  Glyn,  giving  tbe  speaker  a  cold,  fixed 
look,  "  I  know  what  to  do  in  this  case — and  I  may  know  what 
to  do  in  some  other  case,  too." 

The  person  whom  she  thus  addressed  looked  undisturbed, 
but  Mr.  Kennedy  was  evidently  uneasy.  Miss  Cains,  who  was 
still  watching,  saw  there  was  something  beside  Sybil  and  her 
beadache  in  their  minds,  and,  may  be,  there  was  something  else 
in  her  mind,  too,  for  she  looked  at  her  plate,  and  preserved  a 
demure  silence.  Miss  Glyn  went  up  to  Sybil's  room.  She  soon 
came  down,  saying  her  niece  bad  so  violent  a  beadache,  she 
could  not  bear  the  light,  and  must  stay  very  quiet. 

"  Poor  little  Pussy  !  "  sighed  Mr.  Kennedy,  after  dinner. 

He  was  half  addressing  Blanche,  but  she  did  not  heed  him. 
She  stood  looking  intently  at  his  brother's  clouded  face  and 
downcast  eyes.  Mr.  Kennedy  gave  bera  quick,  keen  look,  then 
turned  to  Miss  Glyn.  She  was  reading  the  newspaper,  and  every 
now  and  then  she  glanced  up  angrily  at  his  brother. 


190  sybil's  second  love. 


CHAPTER     XXV. 

Every  one  wondered  at  Sybil's  pale  face  and  heavy  eves  the 
next  morning.  How  severe  must  have  been  the  headache 
which  could  work  such  a  change  in  her  appearance !  Sybil 
said  it  was  very  severe,  but  that  she  felt  better  now,  and  she 
shunned  all  explanation.     After  breakfast  Mr.  Kennedy  said, 

"By  what  train  do  you  leave,  Edward  ?  " 

"  By  the  next.     I  shall  bid  you  good-by  now." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke.  He  exchanged  a  polite  adieu  with 
Miss  Cains,  a  cold  and  formal  one  with  Miss  Glyn,  and  finally 
came  to  Sybil  with  extended  hand.  But  Miss  Kennedy's  hands 
remained  clasped  in  her  lap,  and  her  look  shunned  his. 

"  What,  Pussy,  have  you  and  Ned  quarrelled  ? "  asked  her 
father,  surprised. 

Miss  Glyn  said  nothing,  but  looked  hard  at  her  niece,  and 
seemed  rather  glad  at  her  coldness.  Miss  Cains  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out. 

"  Good-by,  Sybil,"  said  a  voice  near  her. 

He  was  stooping  over  her  chair  as  he  spoke  almost  in  her  ear. 

Sybil  looked  round;  then,  suddenly  flinging  her  arms 
aiound  his  neck,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder.  He  had  killed  her  young  love  in  her  heart,  he  had 
been  pitiless,  oh  !  very  pitiless,  but  he  had  been  true  ;  and 
when  she  thought  of  her  lover's  treachery,  her  whole  heart 
yearned  back  toward  this  faithful  friend,  who  would  rather  risk 
her  hatred  than  not  save  her. 

Miss  Glyn  looked  on  indignant;  Mr.  Kennedy  whistled 
amazed;  even  Miss  Cains  had  a  look  of  surprise  ;  but  without 
heeding  them,  Sybil's  friend  sat  down  by  her  side,  wiped  away 
her  tears  with  his  haudkerchief,  and,  bending  over  her  whis- 
pered softly, 

"  Be  brave,  my  noble  little  Sybil — be  brave  !  " 

Her  look  met  his,  and  flashed  brightly,  for  it  read  there 
truth,  affection,  and  infinite  pity.  She  raised  herself  up,  and 
almost  smiled.  She  gave  him  her  hand,  and,  pressing  it  with 
feverish  ardor,  she  said, 

"  Good-by,  uncle,"  in  a  tone  that  implied,  "  rely  upon  me." 

He  was  late,  and  left  the  room  at  once  ;  but  the  door  had 
scarcely  closed  upon  him,  when  it  opened  again,  and  he  saw 
Sybil,  her  face  still  wet  with  tears. 


sybil's  second  love.  191 

"  Uncle,  write  to  me,"  she  entreated,  a  little  vehemently. 

"  Yes,  Sybil,  I  will — good-by,  God  bless  you  ! " 

He  was  gone,  and  Sybil's  heart  ached  :  with  him  seemed  to 
go  strength  and  consolation.  Ah  !  how  hard  it  was  to  remain 
alone  with  an  unspoken  grief!     It  was  very  hard  indeed  ! 

"  Sybil,"  gravely  asked  her  aunt  when  she  reentered  the 
drawing-room,  "  what  ailed  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  hysterical,"  replied  Sybil  very  quietly. 

"  And  why  were  you  hysterical  ?  "  persisted  Miss  Glyn. 

Sybil  shook  her  head  rather  sadly,  but  made  no  other  answer, 
and  somehow  or  other  Miss  Glyn  felt  silenced.  Several  times 
during  the  course  of  the  morning  she  looked  at  her  niece,  and 
felt  more  puzzled  every  time  she  looked.  Sybil  sat  bending 
over  a  pretty  little  frame,  embroidering  a  pair  of  slippers  she 
had  begun  for  her  future  husband.  The  pattern,  of  his  design- 
ing, was  elegant  and  rich ;  the  task  was  one  in  which  Sybil  had, 
up  to  the  present,  delighted,  but  her  face  was  now  both  rigid 
and  pale,  and  there  was  a  soil  of  sternness  in  the  regular  motion 
of  her  little  white  hand.  Once,  however,  she  paused,  and  her 
dark  eyes  dilated,  whilst  her  pale  lips  parted,  for  as  eleven 
struck,  the  door  opened,  and  Count  de  Renneville  entered.  It 
was  his  hour,  and  just  as  usual  he  looked — smiling,  pleasant, 
courteous,  and  happy.  He  went  up  to  Sybil ;  he  took  her  list- 
less hand  and  kissed  it :  he  noticed  her  altered  looks,  and,  witli 
tender  anxiety,  he  inquired  into  the  cause. 

"  I  have  a  headache,"  she  answered. 

"  I  am  concerned,  truly  concerned.  Does  not  this  work 
fatigue  you  ?    Pray  put  it  by — pray  do." 

And  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  gently  removed  the 
frame  from  before  her.  Sybil  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and 
looked  and  listened,  and  felt  in  a  dream.  His  voice  was  the 
same  as  ever.  No  false  note  in  these  pleasant  tones  gave  token 
of  the  perfidy  within.  Was  it,  then,  so  easy  to  deceive? 
Could  treachery  look  so  like  truth  ? 

"  I  shall  take  a  lesson  from  him,''  thought  Sybil,  and  she 
schooled  herself  to  show  him  no  change  of  manner.  Her  head- 
ache  accounted  for  its  gravity. 

It  had  never  been  the  custom  to  leave  these  lovers  much 
alone  ;  Miss  Glyn  thought  they  would  have  plenty  of  time  after 
marriage,  and  Mr.  Kennedy  objected  to  it,  as  a  violation  of  the 
customs  of  the  country.  Such  tetcs-a-ietcs  as  the  size  of  the 
drawing-room  afforded,  they  had,  and  it    was   recognized    as 


192  sybil's  second  love. 

Sybil's  right  to  walk  down  the  garden  with  her  betrothed  when 
he  left.  Thus,  when  the  count  rose,  after  spending  an  hour 
with  the  family,  Sybil  rose  too,  and,  without  saying  a  word, 
went  up  to  her  room  to  put  on  her  hood  and  cloak.  Count  de 
Renneville  waited  till  she  returned,  talking  gayly  the  while  with 
Miss  Glyn,  who  stood  with  her  hands  behind  her  back,  holding 
forth  on  capital. 

"  Of  course  you  will  come  to-night  ?  "  graciously  said  his  fu- 
ture aunt. 

Count  de  Renneville  bowed,  and  said  he  should  have  that 
pleasure.  Sybil  was  entering  the  room  at  that  moment.  She 
heard  the  invitation,  and  she  also  heard  the  reply.  A  smile 
passed  across  her  pale  face,  but  a  smile  so  stern  that  Blanche, 
who  was  looking  at  her,  rose,  startled,  and  came  up  to  her. 

"  You  little  Judith,"  she  whispered,  "  what  is  the  matter  ? " 

Sybil  held  up  a  warning  forefinger,  enjoining  silence,  and 
informed  Count  de  Renneville  that  she  was  ready.  lie  came  to 
her  with  a  joyful  start,  and  passing  his  arm  within  hers,  led  her 
away. 

The  young  man  was  very  cheerful  that  morning,  he  was 
very  full,  too,  of  his  coming  happiness.  He  had  no  doubts,  no 
misgivings,  as  on  the  preceding  day. 

"Another  week,  dearest  Miss  Kennedy,"  he  said,  fondly, 
"  and  all  will  be  over." 

Sybil  gave  him  a  moody  look,  then  tore  a  leaf  out  of  his 
own  book. 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  that  Blanche  is  not  to  leave  me  !  " 

Count  de  Renneville  sighed. 

"  You  know  I  must  please  you,"  he  replied ;  "  but  I  must  be 
frank — I  cannot  sympathize  with  that  young  lady." 

"  Why  so  ? " 

"  I  have  no  good  reason  to  give — a  secret  antipathy.  I  am 
sure  she  is  a  delightful  person,  but  I  cannot  like  her." 

"  Why,  it  snowed  last  night,"  said  Sybil,  suddenly  stopping 
shoi-t. 

Count  de  Renneville  looked  surprised,  and  well  he  might. 
The  snow  lay  thick  and  deep  on  the  ground,  the  trees  were 
laden  with  it,  the  whole  landscape  was  buried  in  a  white  pall, 
and  Sybil  spoke  of  the  snow  as  one  who  has  but  just  per- 
ceived it. 

"  Surely  you  knew  it  ? "  he  said,  half  incredulous. 

"  No,  I  did  not." 


sybil's  second  love.  193 

Nor  had  she  known  it,  indeed.  One  absorbing  thought 
had  made  the  external  world  vanish  from  before  her  eyes. 

Count  de  Renneville  looked  at  her,  and  began  to  perceive 
that  something  was  the  matter.  They  stood  near  a  small 
thatched  summer-house  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  Sybil  made 
a  sign,  he  opened  the  door,  let  her  pass,  and  followed  her  in. 
She  sat  down,  he  remained  standing.  Sybil  gave  a  little  shiver, 
and  drew  her  cloak  closer  around  her.  The  place  was  damp, 
dark,  and  deadly  chill. 

"  You  will  take  cold,"  said  the  count,  who  was  very  pale. 

Sybil  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"  I  shall  not  stay  long,"  she  said. 

He  bowed;  she  resumed, 

"  I  have  been  reading  the  story  of  Camiola  Turinga  this 
morning.     You  know  it,  of  course?  " 

"  I  do  not." 

"  She  was  rich,  and  Orlando  of  Arragon  was  poor,  and  a 
captive.  She  promised  to  ransom  him  if  he  would  promise  to 
marry  her.  She  kept  her  word,  and  he  broke  his.  More 
passed  between  them,  but  in  the  end  they  parted,  and  Camiola, 
out  of  very  scorn,  gave  him  that  money  he  prized  so  highly. 
If  I  could,  so  would  I  do,"  added  Sybil,  rising,  and  looking  at 
her  lover  with  eyes  that  burned  like  a  clear  flame.  "  I  would 
give  you  freely  that  money  which  was  all  you  prized  in  me.  I 
would,"  she  continued,  opening  her  hands  as  if  they  were  pour- 
ing out  gold  before  him,  "  but  I  am  not  my  own  mistress,  and 
therefore  I  must  be  satisfied  with  returning  you  all  that  is 
yours." 

She  placed  on  the  table,  as  she  spoke,  the  pearls,  the  dia- 
monds, and  the  three  lines  in  the  count's  writing  which  she  had 
received  the  night  before. 

"  You  wrong  me,"  said  the  count,  looking  pale  and  sullen  ; 
"  but  I  will  say  nothing." 

"You  do  well.  Mind  me,  I  could  forgive  your  infidelity, 
for  I  suppose  such  things  are  involuntary  ;  but  I  cannot  your 
treachery.  You  scorned  her  to  me,  awhile  ago  you  did  it 
again,  and  it  was  she  whom  you  loved  after  all.  Worse  still, 
loving  her,  you  could  still  wish  to  marry  me.  It  was  the  money, 
the  miserable  money  !  I  need  say  no  more — you  know  all  I 
think  of  you." 

Count  de  Renneville  trembled  with  anger  and  shame.  The 
quiet  scorn  of  Sybil's  manner  was  not  meant  indeed  to  draw 
9 


194  sybil's  second  love. 

forth  a  lover's  penitence.  Yet  when  lie  saw  her  turning  to  the 
door,  be  could  not  bear  to  let  her  go  thus  from  him. 

"  Miss  Kennedy,"  he  said,  "  you  cannot  mean  this.  Let  me 
explain — let  me  speak  to  your  aunt — " 

"I  am  the  person  to  be  spoken  to,"  interrupted  Sybil; 
"  my  consent  was  that  last  given,  but  is  the  first  to  be  retracted. 
Prove  that  I  have  judged  you  falsely  if  you  can." 

But  Count  de  Renneville  could  not  do  this.  He  was  too 
much  of  a  gentleman,  after  all,  to  deny  his  own  handwriting, 
and  his  baseness  did  not  go  to  the  extent  of  a  barefaced  lie. 
He  knit  his  brows,  and  said  a  little  sullenly, 

"  Young  ladies  are  severe  judges  of  human  nature,  I  know 
— they  expect  rather  more  than  man's  imperfection  can  always 
yield ;  but  I  had  hoped  you  had  some  trust  in  me,  some  faith 
in  my  honor — " 

"  That  will  do,"  interrupted  Sybil,  with  a  little  wave  of  her 
hand  ;  "  that  will  do,  sir." 

And  she  walked  out  of  the  summer-house,  looking  so  cool 
and  haughty,  that  if  ever  Andre  de  Renneville  felt  inclined  to 
hate  a  woman,  it  was  then. 

Sybil  went  on  to  the  house  without  ever  looking  back,  and 
he  made  no  attempt  to  follow  her.  In  this  he  did  well.  All 
was  lost,  and  it  was  useless,  worse  than  useless,  to  humble  his 
pride  to  that  scornful  girl.  Since  they  were  to  part,  let  that 
last  image  of  him  she  should  carry  away  with  her  show  him 
standing  there,  pale,  defiant,  neither  confessing  nor  denying. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  thought  Sybil,  entering  the  house  ;  "  all 
over  forever.     I  am  glad  he  was  not  mean,  and  bore  it  well." 

"  Sybil,  where  are  the  diamonds  ? "  agitatedly  asked  Miss 
Glyn,  meeting  her  niece  in  the  hall. 

"  I  left  them  in  the  summer-house,"  replied  Sybil. 

Miss  Glvn  was  struck  dumb. 

"I  left  them  in  the  summerdiouse,"  said  Sybil  again,  "  for 
Count  de  Renneville  to  take  away." 

Miss  Glvn  so  far  recovered  her  breath  as  to  sav  : 

"  And  why  should  he  take  them  away,  child  ?  " 

Sybil  raised  her  steady  eyes  to  Miss  Glyn's  face,  and  said 
calmly  : 

"  Because  we  have  parted — every  thing  is  over." 

"  You  have  quarrelled  ?  "  said  Miss  Glyn,  faintly. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  very  calmly  replied  Sybil ;  "  we  did  not  quarrel 
—there  was  no  need  for  that;  but  I  learned  something  which 


sybil's  second  love.  195 

made  me  think  it  would  be  better  for  us  two  to  part — and  we 
have  done  so." 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  Miss  Glyn,  feeling  the  hall  was  no 
place  for  this  conversation.  She  took  the  hand  of  her  unresist- 
ing niece,  and  led  her  into  the  study,  where  they  found  Mr. 
Kennedy  writing. 

"  Well,  Pussy,"  said  he,  looking  up,  "  how  is  your  headache  ? " 

"  She  has  been  and  jilted  the  count !  "  cried  Miss  Glyn,  who 
had  had  time  to  get  angry  ;  "  her  banns  published  and  all !  " 

"  Sybil !  "  cried  Mr.  Kennedy,  with  a  start  and  a  heightened 
color.  He  thought  she  would  deny  it,  but  she  did  not.  "  Why 
did  you  do  this  ?  "  he  asked,  anxiously ;  "  do  you  know  what 
you  have  done  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  sadly  said  Sybil.  "  I  learned  that  he 
liked  another  girl,  he  did  not  deny  it,  and  so  we  parted." 

"  What  girl  ? "  angrily  asked  Miss  Glyn. 

"  I  was  not  told  her  name,"  answered  Sybil ;  "  but  he  was 
false,  and  could  not  deny  it,  and  so  we  parted."  She  spoke  in 
a  monotonous,  mechanical  tone,  but  resolute  and  low. 

u.  And  so  you  took  it  on  yourself  to  do  all  this  without  con- 
sulting any  one  ? "  said  Miss  Glyn,  very  warmly. 

"  You  have  been  hasty,"  gravely  remarked  Mr.  Kennedy. 
He  was  bitterly  disappointed,  and  looked  as  he  felt. 

"  I  could  not  marry  a  man  who  only  wanted  my  money," 
said  Sybil. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?"  sharply  asked  her  aunt. 

"  He  did  not  deny  it." 

There  was  no  answering  this,  so  Miss  Glvn  turned  her  wrath 
in  another  quarter. 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said  angrily,  "  that  man  is  at  the  root 
of  all  this." 

Mr.  Kennedy  bit  his  pen,  and  frowned,  but  said  nothing  ; 
and  Sybil,  wearied  of  all,  softly  stole  out  of  the  room,  and  went 
up-stairs.  She  met  Blanche  at  her  door.  She  went  up  to  her, 
took  her  in  her  arms,  and  said  a  little  passionately, 

"  Blanche,  I  love  you  more  than  ever — more  than  ever!  " 

"AVhathas  happened?"  asked  Miss  Cains,  looking  rather 
startled. 

"  We  have  parted,  it  is  all  over,  but  I  love  you  more  than 
ever — more  than  ever." 


196  sybil's  second  love. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

There  is  always  imagination  in  a  young  girl's  first  love.  It 
was  not  merely  Andre  de  Renneville  who  had  won  Sybil's  affec- 
tions, it  was  the  gentleman  of  noble  birth,  of  refined  feelings,  of 
stainless  honor,  and  of  many  heavy  troubles.  Had  be  been  a 
gay  and  rich  young  man,  she  might  not  have  cared  for  him ;  or 
if  she  had  liked  him,  it  would  assuredly  have  been  on  different 
grounds,  and  in  a  different  way.  He  had  conquered  her  by  his 
sorrows,  and  the  supposed  greatness  and  goodness  of  his  nature. 
But  his  griefs  now  wore  a  sordid  look,  and  his  very  virtues  were 
unreal — the  mere  creatures  of  her  brain.  Sybil  had  sense 
enough  to  see  this,  and  as  pity  and  esteem  had  helped  the  birth 
of  love,  so  contempt  now  helped  to  kill  it,  surely  and  very 
swiftly.  She  would  not  go  on  lamenting  a  man  who  had  de- 
ceived her  so  basely,  and  sold  himself  more  basely  still.  But  our 
heart  is  a  complex  being  after  all — a  world  within  a  world, 
which  baffles  all  explanation.  If  Sybil  grieved  little  for  her  lost 
lover,  she  grieved  keenly,  bitterly,  for  her  lost  love — for  the  faith 
and  the  trust  she  could  have  no  more.  It  is  very  cruel  to  youth, 
is  this  first  wakening  to  4;he  possibility  of  treachery  and  false- 
hood. Of  course  we  all  know  that  there  are  great  treasons  in 
this  life  of  ours ;  we  know  of  them,  for  we  have  read  history, 
but  remote  and  vague  is  the  knowledge.  It  is  like  death — seen 
daily,  but  scarcely  believed  in  till  it  comes  home  to  us,  and 
makes  a  place  vacant  around  our  own  hearth.  Sybil  had  learned 
that  men  do  betray,  that  girls  can  be  deceived,  but  she  could 
not  connect  these  sad  truths  with  herself,  or  think  them  woven 
in  her  destiny.  Her  lover  was  to  be  great,  and  good,  and  true, 
and  the  very  soul  of  honor;  her  love  was  to  be  faithful  and 
eternal.  There  might  be  trouble  in  store  for  her,  partings  bitter 
as  death,  calamities,  too,  but  not  treachery — not  falsehood! 
And  now  she  was  called  upon  to  realize  these  cruel  things.  She 
had  to  remember  not  what  that  loved  one  had  seemed  to  be,  but 
what  he  had  been  all  along.  There  arose  a  great  hatred  in  her 
heart,  not  for  hira — she  scarcely  deigned  to  hate  him — but  for 
that  illusion  which  had  nearly  made  her  its  victim.  Oh  !  how 
she  scorned  her  blindness,  how  she  loathed  every  tender  and 
trusting  word  she  had  bestowed  on  the  ingrate  !  How  she 
would  have  annihilated  that  past  if  she  could ;  burned  it  out  of 
her  life,  and  scared  its  verv  traces  ! 


Sybil's  second  love.  197 

Something  of  all  this  was  in  her  face  -when  she  clasped 
Blanche  in  her  arms,  and  told  her  that  she  loved  her  more  than 
ever.  Miss  Cains  rarely  changed  color,  but  her  eyes  often  took 
a  look  of  sudden  quickness,  which  showed  her  consciousness  of 
what  passed  around  her.  That  look  now  passed  through  them 
swiftly.  She  placed  her  hand  on  Sybil's  shoulder,  and  gently 
made  her  enter  her  own  room.  When  the  door  was  closed 
upon  them,  she  said, 

"  What  has  happened?  Why  do  you  look  so  ?  It  is  rather 
dreadful,  young  lady." 

"  I  look  as  I  feel,"  moodily  replied  Sybil ;  "  but  I  love  you 
more  than  ever,  for  you  are  good  and  true,  and  he — well,  I  will 
not  quarrel  with  him  for  preferring  you.  Only,  why  had  he  not 
the  manliness  to  give  me  up?  You  would  not  have  had  him — 
but  he  might  have  tried.     I  suppose  he  was  too  sordid." 

Miss  Cains  frowned. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  said,  dryly. 

"  You  do,  Blanche,  but  you  want  to  screen  him,  and  it  is  too 
late ;  all  is  over  between  us." 

"  But  I  am  not  the  cause,"  said  Blanche,  very  gravely. 

"  No,  his  own  baseness  is ;  and,  Blanche,  your  name  has  not 
been  mentioned.  1  have  not  mentioned  it  even  to  him,  much 
less  to  my  aunt,  or  even  to  my  father.  You  are  not  to  blame, 
but  they  might  not  like  it." 

"You  are  a  darling!"  said  Blanche,  evidently  ranch  re- 
lieved ;  "  but,  my  dear  child,  do  not  speak  in  those  tragic  tones. 
It  is  a  quarrel,  but  your  banns  are  published,  and  you  will  be 
the  little  countess  after  all !  " 

Sybil  got  a  little  indignant. 

"Do  you  think  I  will  marry  a  man  who  loves  you?"  she 
asked,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"  But,  my  darling,  how  do  you  know  he  loves  me?"  gayly 
asked  Blanche. 

"  I  taxed  him  with  it — he  did  not  deny  it." 

Miss  Cains  looked  down  on  the  floor,  and  knit  her  smooth 
brows. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  looking  up  with  a  scornful  smile,  "I  sup- 
pose that,  being  poor  and  handsome,  I  am  made  for  that  sort  of 
thing — to  be  insolently  liked,  I  mean ;  but,  after  all,  Sybil,  you 
know  it  was  you  whom  he  preferred.  You  were  to  be  the 
countess,  the  mother  of  his  children,  the  honored  restorer  of  the 
family  ;  and  I  must  hope  he  kept  no  place  for  me,  since  there 
was  none  left  I  could  fill  decently." 


198  Sybil's  second  love. 

Sybil  smiled  drearily. 

"You  mean  kindly,  Blanche,"  she  said,  "but  that  will  not 
do.  "Besides,"  she  added,  with  a  significant  compression  of 
her  lips,  "  you  do  not  understand  me,  nor  why  I  must  for  ever- 
more hate  the  man:  he  wras  not  true." 

She  looked  very  stern  and  severe. 

"  You  little  Puritan !  "  said  Miss  Cains.  "  He  was,  like  all 
jfien,  faithless.  What  of  that  ?  I  suppose  they  cannot  help  it," 
she  composedly  added. 

"But  I  can  help  being  betrayed ! "  replied  Sybil,  with  alight 
in  her  dark  eyes  which,  spite  her  paleness,  gave  her  such  sud- 
den beauty  that  her  friend  was  dazzled. 

"  He  was  a  contemptible  wretch  ! "  she  exclaimed,  scornfully. 
"  You  look  divine  just  now,  Sybil.  A  little  spirit,  all  pure  pale 
flame;  but  I  suppose  he  liked  substance,  too!"  she  said,  tap- 
ping her  foot  angrily  on  the  floor.  "  You  do  well  to  discard 
him  ;  but,  for  all  that,  you  had  his  better  liking.  I  have  seen  it 
a  hundred  times.  The  baser  part  he  gave  to  me,  and,  T  will  be 
honest,  I  saw  that  too,  and  I  hated  him  for  it,"  she  added, 
clinching  her  hands;  "and  I  will  live  to  be  avenged  on  mon- 
sieur le  comte ! " 

"  Avenged  ! "  echoed  Sybil,  relapsing  into  languor.  "  Who 
cares  for  revenge  on  the  base  ?     Contempt  will  do  ! " 

"  I  have  no  patience  with  you,"  cried  Miss  Cains,  impa- 
tiently. "  You  are  a  great  deal  too  magnanimous  for  me.  If  I 
had  him  under  my  foot,  so,  I  would  crush  him  !  How  dare  he 
betray  you,  and  insult  me  ! " 

"  Let  us  think  no  more  about  him,"  composedly  said  Sybil. 
"  What  ought  we  to  wear  this  evening  ?  You  know  we  are  go- 
ing to  Mrs.  Ronald's." 

"  No,  Sybil,  do  not  try  that— do  not,  you  will  break  down." 

"Well,  Blanche,  I  say  it  again,  you  do  not  know  me. 
Break  down,  and  for  him — never  !  I  say  again,  what  ouo-ht  we 
to  wear  this  evening  2." 

•  Miss  Cains  again  attempted  to  dissuade  her  from  c;oing  out. 
Sybil  was  resolute.  She  would  not  stay  at  home  and  mourn, 
she  would  not  grieve  for  him.  She  would  show  the  traitor  it 
was  not  in  his  power  to  rob  her  of  life's  joys.  She  was  so  de- 
termined, and  so  inexorable  in  her  resolve,  that  Miss  Cains  be- 
gan to  think  she  did  not  know  much  of  Sybil,  after  all. 
"  There  is  iron  in  her,"  she  thought,  watching  her  pale,  reso- 
lute face  and  tearless  eyes.  There  was  iron,  and  there  was  fever 
too.     So  her  friend  gave  in,  and  humored  her. 


sybil's  second  love.  199 

"  You  are  pale,"  she  said,  "  so  I  shall  deck  you  with  roses, 
which  will  give  you  a  color.  White  will  do  for  your  dress — 
aud  then  you  will  be  a  little  victim  ready  for  the  sacrifice  !  But 
no,  he  will  be  there,  and  he  praised  you  in  white,  with  roses,  so 
he  will  think—" 

"  It  is  not  he,"  interrupted  Sybil,  "  it  is  uncle  who  likes  me 
in  white,  and  I  will  wear  that,  and  nothing  else.  What  will 
you  put  on  ? " 

"  Blue  ! — eternal  blue  !  "  sighed  Blanche,  with  mock  grav- 
ity. "  I,  too,  have  your  uncle's  authority  for  it,  for  he  is  the 
great  lawgiver  in  matters  of  dress  here,  I  believe." 

Miss  Glyn  was  little  inclined  for  the  party,  and  spoke  of 
sending  in  an  apology.  But  Sybil  was  resolute,  and  as  her 
father  was  compelled  to  stay  within,  she  insisted  on  having  her 
aunt  for  a  chaperon.  Spite  the  bitterness  of  her  disappointment, 
Miss  Glyn  yielded.  She  hoped  to  soften  Sybil  by  this  conces- 
sion, and  to  get  at  the  truth  of  the  morning's  quarrel,  as  she 
persisted  in  calling  it.  Suspicions  she  had,  and  these  she  chose 
to  express  in  private  hints  to  Miss  Cains,  when  they  happened 
to  remain  alone  together  after  dinner. 

"  T  trust,  Miss  Cains,  you  are  coming  with  us  ? "  she  said, 
with  kind  patronage. 

"  Yes — Mrs.  Ronald  has  asked  me,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"  Mrs.  Ronald  could  not  do  less  than  to  ask  our  visitor," 
said  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Oh  !  I  do  not  claim  being  invited  on  my  own  merits,  Miss 
Glyn.     I  know  my  value  too  well  for  that." 

"  Now,  Miss  Cains,  don't  be  humble,"  dryly  answered  the 
elder  lady — "  it  won't  do.  You  have  been  thoroughly  appreci- 
ated, and  you  know  it." 

Miss  Cains  rose,  drew  herself  up,  and  said,  gravely  : 

"  I  will  not  pretend  to  misunderstand  you — I  shall  not  go 
to  Mrs.  Ronald's  to-night." 

She  left  the  apartment  as  she  uttered  this  speech,  and  went 
up  to  her  own  room.  There  Sybil,  when  she  was  dressed,  came 
aud  found  her. 

"  You  are  not  getting  ready  !  "  she  said,  surprised. 

"  I  am  not  going,  my  dear ;  your  aunt  has  chosen  to  ex- 
press suspicions  which  I  could  not  avcII  deny.  The  count  will 
probably  be  at  Mrs.  Ronald's  to-night,  and  if  Miss  Glyn  began 
watching  me,  I  should  feel  exasperated.  Better  stay  within; 
believe  me,  Sybil,  I  am  sick  of  the  world — it  is  no  punishment 
to  me." 


200 


SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOVE. 


Sybil  insisted,  but  rather  languidly.  Her  heart  was  in 
nothing  now — not  even  in  the  presence  of  her  friend  ;  besides, 
Miss  Cains  seemed  bent  on  remaining  at  home,  and  repeatedly 
declared  she  was  sick  of  parties.  Sybil  felt  in  a  mood  to  be 
lieve  her — how  empty  was  the  world — how  burdensome  were 
its  pleasures  to  her  now  !  As  she  went  down  to  join  her  aunt, 
her  father  called  her  into  his  study. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  "  is  this  matter  really  over  ?  Is  there  no 
mending  of  it  ? " 

"  None,"  apathetically  said  Sybil ;  "  he  would  come  back 
to  me,  I  dare  say,  if  I  wished  it,  but'  I  do  not,  and  he  must  stay 
away." 

"  Let  it  be,  then,"  a  little  sulkily  said  her  father  ;  "  here  is 
a  letter  of  Ned  for  you,"  and  be  threw  on  the  table  a  large 
square  letter,  securely  sealed  with  bright  red  wax. 

Sybil  took  it,  and  her  heart  beat  with  something  like  joy  as 
it  lay  in  her  hand.  Here  was  a  friend — a  true  friend — speak- 
ing to  her  at  last.  All  the  others  had  been  blind,  but  he,  clear- 
sighted, because  unselfish,  had  warned  her  from  the  first.  She 
would  not  read  his  letter  now,  but  she  would  take  it  with  her ; 
the  sense  that  she  had  it  would  calm  her,  and  give  her  strength 
to  go  through  the  self-inflicted  trial  of  Mrs.  Ronald's  party. 

"  I  shall  read  it  when  I  come  back,"  she  said  to  her  father. 

"  Read  it  when  you  please,"  he  replied,  carelessly. 

He  was  vexed  with  her,  and  he  showed  it  plainly.  Tears 
stood  in  Sybil's  eyes.  Then  her  happiness  was  not  her  father's 
first  thought,  after  all !  But  she  felt  intuitively  this  matter  was 
best  left  unargued,  and  with  affected  cheerfulness  she  left  Mr. 
Kennedy's  study. 

Sybil  was  beautifully  dressed  this  evening,  and  Mrs.  Ronald's 
party  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  which  that  lady  had  given 
yet.  Sybil  was  the  belle  of  the  night,  aud  Miss  Glyn's  ears 
rang  with  her  praises  ;  but  that  lady's  brow  remained  clouded. 
Her  niece  had  never  looked  so  handsome,  had  never  been  in 
such  high  spirits,  being  rather  quiet  in  society,  had  never  been 
so  much  courted  and  admired  ;  but  for  all  that  Miss  Glyn  was 
miserable.  She  had  half  hoped  that  the  same  feeling  of  pride 
which  had  taken  Sybil  to  the  ball  would  have  taken  her  false 
lover  too  ;  not  only,  however,  did  she  not  sec  him,  but  she 
beard  the  most  unpleasant  news — Count  dc  Renneville  was  gone 
to  Paris.     He  had  taken  the  train  that  very  afternoon. 

Madame  de  Lonville  was  her  informant,  and  much  puzzled 
that  lady  looked  as  she  imparted  the  tidings  to  Miss  Glyn. 


sybil's  second  love.  201 

Sybil's  aunt  had  a  sense  of  dignity  which  overbalanced 
every  otber  consideration.  She  saw  that  Sybil  had  so  man- 
aged as  to  make  reconciliation  impossible,  and  bitter  though 
her  disappointment  was,  she  scorned  to  show  it.  She  was  wise 
enough,  too,  to  feel  that  to  delay  in  telling  the  truth  could  in- 
jure Sybil,  and  serve  no  other  purpose,  so  she  replied  deliber- 
ately, 

"  It  is  my  niece's  doing.  They  have  parted — I  approve 
Sybil  entirely." 

Madame  de  Lonville's  babyish  face  showed  unfeigned  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Why,  the  banns  were  published!  "  she  said. 

"  They  were — but  it  is  never  too  late  to  repent  an  ern  >r, 
and  it  was  not  too  late  to  repair  this,  luckily  for  my  niece.  You 
were  mistaken  in  that  gentleman,  Madame  de  Lonville." 

"  What  is  it  ?— what  did  he  do  ?  "  asked  that  lady  with  un- 
feigned curiosity. 

"  I  have  no  wish,  and,  indeed,  no  right  to  injure  him — he 
is  punished  enough  as  it  is,"  was  Miss  Glyn's  magnanimous  reply. 

More  than  this  Madame  de  Lonville  could  not  extract  from 
her,  and  Sybil  she  could  not  get  at.  The  young  lady  was  en- 
gaged for  every  dance,  and  in  the  interval  was  too  much  sur- 
rounded by  her  partners  to  be  accessible.  Madame  de  Lon- 
ville thought  to  wait  until  they  were  going,  but  Sybil  was 
determined  to  be  the  last  at  the  ball,  and  Madame  de  Lonville 
got  tired  and  went  away. 

Miss  Glyn  bided  her  niece's  time  with  heroic  patience.  She 
was  very  angry  with  Sybil,  but  she  admired  her  spirit.  "  She 
got  it  from  the  Glyns,"  she  thought  proudly.  It  was  provok- 
ing in  Sybil  to  have  thrown  away  such  an  opportunity  of  be- 
coming a  countess,  but  having  done  so,  it  was  but  right  to  carry 
it  through,  and  dance  as  gayly  as  if  no  count  had  ever  existed 

"  I  Avould  have  done  it,"  thought  Miss  Glyn. 

So  she  waited  Sybil's  pleasure,  and  never  complained  that 
she  had  stayed  late  as  they  rode  home.  She  intended,  how- 
ever, catechising  her  ere  they  parted  that  night,  or  rather  that 
morning ;  but  when  they  entered  the  house  together,  and  she 
saw  Sybil's  pale  and  haggard  face,  her  purpose  melted  from 
her.  She  bade  her  good-night,  and  put  off  her  questioning  till 
the  morning. 

9* 


202  sybil's  second  love. 


CHAPTER    XX  VII. 

"  Oh  !  what  an  evening  ! — what  an  evening  !  "  moaned  Sybil, 
as  she  entered  her  cold  room.  She  had  told  Denise  not  to  sit 
up  for  her,  and  the  poor  girl,  tired  with  housework,  obeyed 
very  willingly.  So  Sybil  undressed  alone.  Her  heart  was  lull 
of  anguish.  She  had  acted  a  part  beyond  her  strength,  and 
not  in  her  nature.  What  did  she  care  for  the  world,  and  for 
pride?  It  wras  all  her  lost  love,  his  treachery,  her  misplaced 
faith,  her  bright  illusions  turned  into  cold  and  ghastly  spectres. 
Slie  wrung  her  hands;  she  could  have  cried  aloud  in  the  excess 
of  her  misery.  Suddenly  she  remembered  her  uncle's  letter. 
With  eager  hands  she  broke  the  seal,  and  read  :_ 

"  Sybil,  dearest  Sybil,"  he  wrote,  "  I  have  no  comfort  to 
give  you,  I  fear — expect  none  from  me.  I  am  no  magician,  to 
do  the  work  of  Time,  and  I  have  no  right  to  forestall  the  bitter 
knowledge  which  Time  alone  will  give  you.  Your  grief  will 
end — it  will  end  sooner  than  you  think,  for  man's  grief  is  like 
man  himself — brief  and  mortal ;  for  eternal  sorrows  we  want 
immortal  sufferers.  Let  one  thought,  however,  strengthen  you 
in  your  trial — you  have  come  forth  a  conqueror,  you  have  not 
been  weak  and  foolishly  fond,  and  there  is  no  blot  of  folly  on 
your  little  victory.  Happy  are  you  in  this,  Sybil  ;  for  which  is 
the  most  perilous  and  profaned  of  all  our  human  feelings,  if  not 
Love  ?  Even  in  Paradise,  even  iu  the  union  which  God  Him- 
self had  blessed,  there  was  danger,  and  through  love  the  first 
man  fell,  and  brought  on  his  hapless  seed  the  inheritance  of  sin 
and  death.  It  is  something,  Sybil,  to  pass  freely  through  this 
ordeal,  and  to  look  back,  in  sorrow  indeed,  but  not  in  shame, 
on  the  past.  It  matters  little  to  have  bestowed  love  uuworthily, 
provided  love  was  not  born  of  unworthy  motives. 

"  To  be  wrecked  on  that  sea  is  a  common  lot ;  but  to  have 
gone  forth,  not  with  a  brave  and  earnest  heart,  but  in  idle 
pleasure-seeking  quest,  is  bitter  humiliation  added  to  the  sor- 
row of  shipwreck.  My  pride  has  had  such  a  fall,  Sybil.  Beauty 
lured  me;  I  had  the  knowledge  and  experience  which  failed 
you,  and  yet  I  rushed  upon  my  fate  in  very  folly.  There  was 
as  much  to  warn  me  as  there  was  to  deceive  you.  For  you 
were  right  to  trust,  Sybil.  Always  lay  that  comfort  and  sooth- 
ing unction  to  your  soul.  You  were  right  to  trust  him.  He 
was  false  through  temptation  and  weakness,  not  through  habit, 


sybil's  second  love.  203 

or,  worse  still,  through  nature.  Out  of  your  great  wreck  you 
have  saved  self-respect.  Some,  Sybil,  reach  the  shore,  and  leave 
all  they  once  had  in  that  great,  deep,  pitiless  sea,  and  must  be- 
gin life  on  a  fresh  score — happy  when  they  are  free,  and  can 
do  so. 

"  It  is  late,  and  I  can  write  no  more  to-night.  I  am  sitting 
up  in  a  little  village  inn  by  the  kitchen  fire,  and  a  drowsy  girl 
is  nodding  over  her  knitting  till  I  have  done.  She  is  red- 
cheeked  and  red-armed — health  and  labor  have  been  with  her 
from  her  childhood.  I  doubt  if  her  heart  will  ever  ache  as 
yours  aches  to-night,  Sybil,  though  you  are  both  one  flesh. 
But  provident  Nature  has  endowed  this  suffering  child  of  hers 
with  a  thick  coating.  Endurance  is  the  badge  of  her  tribe, 
and  had  need  be.  The  tired  and  surly  traveller,  the  coarse 
dropper-in  of  the  village  tavern,  have  had  her  for  their  butt, 
and  inured  her.  The  faithless  lover,  the  ill-tempered  husband, 
will  find  their  match  in  her.-  She  will  be  blunt  to  the  infidelity 
of  the  one,  and  ready  to  rail  and  scold  at  the  brutality  of  the 
other.  And  is  she  really  of  the  same  race  with  you,  my  little 
proud  Sybil,  so  quick,  so  keen,  so  sensitive,  so  broken  down 
because  faithlessness  has  come  near  you  ?  Can  habit  and  rear- 
ing, that  second  nature,  place  such  great  difference  where  Nature 
herself  has,  as  a  rule,  placed  so  little  ? 

u  I  would  say  more,  but  the  poor  wearied  drudge  has  wak- 
ened up,  and  looked  at  me  with  her  drowsy  eyes.  I,  too,  am 
tired,  so  good-night,  Sybil.  I  have  been  out  in  this  dreary 
weather,  and  got  wet,  and  sat  here  to  get  rid  of  the  damp  chill. 
I  shall  sleep  well  to-night,  but,  my  poor  little  Sybil,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Sleep  !  "  thought  Sybil,  as  she  closed  the  letter ;  "  no,  I 
cannot  sleep  ;  shall  I  ever  sleep  again  T" 

She  looked  very  ill  and  worn  when  she  came  down  the  next 
morning.  Nevertheless  she  would  go  to  a  party  to  which  both 
Miss  Cains  and  she  had  been  asked  for  some  time,  and  which 
fell  on  that  very  night.  And  Miss  Glyn,  though  she  scarcely 
approved,  accompanied  her.  She  still  admired  her  niece's 
spirit,  and  thought  it  best  to  show  the  world  they  could  bear 
parting  from  the  count.  Miss  Cains  shook  her  head  when 
Sybil  asked  her  to  go  with  them. 

"No,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "I  am  sick  of  parties,  and  love 
home  best.  I  shall  dress  you,  however,  for  you  must  be  made 
lovely  ! " 

The  word    "home"  made   Miss  Glyn   frown.       Did    Miss 


204  sybil's  second  love. 

Cains  mean  to  stay  forever  ?      She  put  the   question  to  Sybil, 
as  they  drove  away. 

"  I  do  not  know,  aunt,"  was  the  apathetic  reply.  "  She  is 
very  unfortunate.  She  cannot  get  an  engagement,  and  that 
preys  upon  her  spirits." 

"  But  does  not  make  her  thin.  Your  father  remarked  to  me 
how  stout  she  is  getting." 

"  Why  does  he  not  like  her?  Why  does  no  one  like  her ? " 
almost  angrily  asked  Sybil.  "  She  is  goodness  itself,  and  no 
one  will  acknowledge  it." 

"Oh,  yes  !  I  know  one  who  saw  Miss  Cains's  merits,"  sharp- 
ly said  Miss  Glyn  ;  "  and  I  dare  say  so  do  you ! " 

Sybil  did  not  answer  the  taunt.  Partly  through  prudence, 
partly  because  she  did  not  care  about  it.  She  cared  about  noth- 
ing just  then,  and,  saddest  of  all,  she  felt  as  if  she  would  care 
about  nothing  more  forever  and  ever.  Perhaps  she  had  loved 
the  count  better  than  she  thought,  after  all.  Perhaps  first 
wounds,  though  not  always  the  deepest,  must  ever  create  this 
feeling  of  desolation.  Later  we  feel  the  blow  as  keenly,  but  we 
know  that  we  shall  recover.  In  youth  we  rarely  suspect  this. 
It  is  all  over  forever  and  ever,  as  Svbil  thought.  Life  is  a  blank, 
a  waste,  and  we  walk  on  to  the  goal  with  the  ruins  around  us. 

In  that  mood  Sybil  bore  her  grief,  and  night  after  night 
went  into  the  world  pale  and  defiant,  and,  as  she  thought,  broken- 
hearted. Miss  Glyn  accompanied  her,  for  Mr.  Kennedy  was 
just  then  deep  in  troublesome  accounts,  and  Miss  Cains  had 
given  up  the  world,  as  she  told  Sybil.     This  lasted  a  week. 

A.s  the  two  ladies  came  home  one  evening  earlier  than 
usual,  Miss  Glyn  exclaimed  suddenly, 

"  Why,  there's  a  light  in  the  drawing-room  !" 

Sybil  looked  through  the  carriage  window,  and  saw  the 
light  too. 

"  I  wonder  who  authorizes  Miss  Cains  to  keep  state  in  the 
draAving-room  of  Saint  Vinceut  ? "  continued  Miss  Glyn  with 
considerable  asperity. 

A  shadow  was  even  then  moving  across  the  blind,  but  if 
Miss  Glyn's  eyesight  was  not  keen  enough  to  know  male  from 
female  shadows,  Sybil's  was.  Had  her  uncle  come  back? — she 
did  uot  dare  to  say  so  to  her  aunt.  Miss  Glyn  did  not  like  Mr. 
Kennedy's  brother,  and  Sybil  knew  it.  Besides,  she  was  not 
bound  to  speak,  for  another  shadow  suddenly  appeared,  and 
this  time  she  recognized  Blanche's  figure.     For  a  few  seconds 


sybil's  second  love.  205 

the  two  shadows  stood  close  to  each  other,  as  if  talking,  then  they 
seemed  to  blend  into  one  as  they  crossed,  and,  parting,  they 
left  the  window  a  plain  blank  square  of  light. 

"  Is  it  he  ?  "  thought  Sybil,  with  a  beating  heart — "  is  it  he  ? 
Oh  !  if  he  could  but  comfort  me  ! " 

She  preceded  her  aunt  when  the  carriage  stopped,  and  ran 
up  to  the  drawing-room  with  a  sort  of  eagerness.  She  looked 
round  quickly  on  entering  the  room,  but  Miss  Cains  sat  alone, 
and  on  seeing  her,  put  down  her  book  with  a  little  yawn. 

"  So  soon  ? "  she  said. 

"  Yes — was  that  uncle  who  was  with  you  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  composedly  replied  Miss  Cains  ;  "  some  one 
entered  this  room,  looked  in,  and  walked  out,  and  I  suppose  it 
was  Greeneyes." 

"Did  you  not  see,  Blanche?" 

"My  dear,  I  never  see  what  I  do  not  like  to  look  at,"  was 
the  scornful  reply,  "  and  I  may  add,  what  does  not  like  to  look 
at  me." 

Sybil  did  not  answer  this,  for  Miss  Glyn  now  made  her  ap- 
pearance, and  with  some  asperity  hoped  that  Miss  Cains  was 
careful  about  fire  and  waxlight — it  was  so  easy  to  set  a  house 
on  fire. 

"  Deplorably  easy  !  "  composedly  said  Miss  Cains. 

Miss  Glyn  tightened  her  lips,  not  to  say  something  inhospi- 
table, and  Sybil  lingered  in  the  room,  hoping  her  uncle  would  re- 
turn, but  he  did  not.  They  did  not  meet  till  the  next  morning, 
and  then,  without  seeking  it,  Sybil  came  upon  her  uncle  as  he 
was  smoking  in  his  cloister.  He  looked  rather  earnestly  at  her 
pale  wrorn  face,  but  made  no  comment.     He  only  said  : 

"  Where  were  you  last  night  ? — at  a  party,  Sybil  ? — why  do 
you  do  that  ? — you  cannot  cheat  yourself.  Is  it  worth  while 
cheating  others  ? " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  and  I  am  tired  of  it.  I  will  go  out 
no  more.  Onlv,  uncle,  do  go  on  writing  to  me — oh !  pray 
do ! " 

He  was  struck  with  the  imploring  earnestness  of  her  tone. 
He  had  written  to  her  almost  daily,  and  these  letters  had 
yielded  her  a  bitter  consolation.  Sybil  would  talk  of  her  grief 
to  none;  she  would  not  tease  her  father  and  her  aunt — pcrli:q»s 
because  she  would  not  hear  their  questions,  and  she  would  not 
trouble  Blanche  with  a  sorroAv  she  had  caused.  But  she 
wanted    some   one  to  remember  her,   and  bear  a  part   of  bet 


206  Sybil's  second  love. 

burden,  and  this  her  uncle's  letters  did  for  her.  He  did  uot 
make  light  of  her  grief ;  he  wearied  her  with  no  commonplace 
consolation  ;  he  acknowledged  her  sorrow.  It  was  rather  all 
human  lamenting  that  he  sounded  and  found  shallow,  than  her 
own  particular  trouble,  which  he  derided.  That  craving  rest- 
lessness which  is  at  the  root  of  all  grief,  he  soothed,  and  Sybil 
longed  for  this  silent  speech,  as  the  weary  long  for  repose. 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered,  after  a  brief  pause — "  I  will 
wiite  to  you  still." 

"  I  ought  not  to  ask  it,  I  know,"  said  Sybil,  sadly,  "  for  you 
are  very  busy  ;  but  grief  makes  me  selfish." 

"  Selfish,  Sybil ! — I  wonder  when  it  will  do  that  to  you  ? 
Never  ! — never !  As  to  my  being  busy,  it  is  gentle  hypocrisy 
in  you  to  mind  it,  you  know.  But  why  do  you  want  me  to 
write  ? — will  not  speech  do  ? " 

"  No.  I  read  a  letter  again  and  again,  and  when  should  I 
see  you  alone  ?  It  is  just  a  chance  that  we  are  here  five  min- 
utes together.     Besides,  I  like  your  letters,  uncle." 

"  Very  well,  your  ladyship  shall  get  one  this  evening." 

"  Thank  you — thank  you.     Oh  !    you  are  so  good  !  " 

"  Am  I !  Poor  little  bruised  reed,  who  would  not  be  good 
to  you  ? " 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  looked  down  at  her 
upraised  face  with  sorrowful  compassion. 

"  Sybil ! "  called  Miss  Glyn,  from  a  window. 

Sybil  looked  up,  and  saw  her  aunt  frowning ;  but  she 
obeyed  the  summons,  and  left  her  uncle,  who  remained  in  the 
cloister  smoking. 

"  Ah !  how  selfish  I  am  !  "  thought  Sybil.  "  I  now  wish  I 
were  alone  in  this  house,  with  my  father  and  him  He  is  the 
only  one  who  knows  how  to  comfort  rae." 

It  is  awkward  to  be  angry,  and  not  to  be  able  to  give  cause 
for  such  anger.  In  this  predicament  was  Miss  Glyn  when  Sybil 
joined  her.  It  had  incensed  her  to  see  the  familiar  attitude  of 
"  the  impostoj,"  as  she  called  him,  with  his  hand  laid  on  the 
shoulder  of  her  niece,  but  she  would  not  tell  Sybil  so.  So  she 
was  sharp  and  cross  about  Sybil's  looks,  and  Sybil  heard  her  in 
provoking  passive  silence,  and  answered  not  one  word. 

Languor  was  on  her,  and  claimed  her  for  her  own.  Nothing 
and  no  one  could  rouse  her.  Only  as  evening  came  on,  and  she 
thought  of  the  promised  letter,  she  brightened  a  little.  The 
whole  family  sat  in  the  drawing-room,  and  she  thought  her  uncle 


Sybil's  second  love.  207 

would  come  to  her,  and  take  the  first  opportunity  of  putting  it 
into  her  hand,  hut  he  did  not.  He  stayed  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  talking  to  her  father.  Had  he  forgotten  his  promise? 
Still  she  did  not  think  so,  for  when  Mr.  Keunedy  rose,  and  went 
up  to  Miss  Glyn,  she  noticed  that  his  brother  put  his  hands  into 
his  pocket.  In  a  moment  Sybil  was  by  his  side,  and  showing 
him  her  open  book,  she  said, 

"  Do  look  at  that,  uncle  !  " 

He  took  the  volume  from  her  hand,  and  looked  at  her.  Ex- 
pectation and  desire  were  in  her  eyes,  and  in  her  parted  lips, 
and  as  he  put  the  letter  into  the  open  volume  and,  after  glan- 
cing at  the  page,  returned  it  to  her,  he  thought  that  if  he  were  a 
lover,  such  a  look  from  those  dark  eyes  might  lead  him  far,  veiy 
far  indeed.  With  a  joyful  flush  Sybil  went  back  to  her  seat, 
heedless  of  two  looks  which  her  uncle  got — one  from  Miss  Cains, 
light  and  mocking ;  the  other  from  Miss  Glyn,  flashing  and  in- 
dignant. Of  that  look  Mr.  Kennedy's  brother,  however,  was 
quite  aware ;  he  returned  it  with  another  of  haughty  defiance, 
but  he  resolved  to  write  no  more  to  Sybil. 

If  Miss  Cains  had  seen  any  thing,  she  showed  no  token  of  it 
to  her  friend,  and  Sybil  could  read  her  letter  alone  and  undis- 
turbed. It  was  kind,  though  not  without  severity.  It  pitied 
her,  yet  it  forbade  her  the  indulgence  of  useless  grief.  Sybil's 
tears  flowed  as  she  read  it. 

"  He,  too,"  she  thought,  "  is  he  tired  of  me  ?  But  no,  that 
is  not  it.  He  wants  to  cure  me.  He  is  the  kind  though  severe 
physician,  and  I  must  obey  him.     I  must,  and  I  will !  " 

When  Sybil  thought  of  obedience,  she  also  thought  of  an- 
other letter.  But  though  she  expected  it  the  next  evening  it 
came  not,  nor  the  next  again.  In  vain  she  looked  at  her  uncle, 
he  did  not  seem  to  understand  the  meaning  of  her  looks.  Had 
she  offended  him  ?  Sybil  could  not  bear  the  thought,  and  re- 
solved to  learn  the  truth. 

On  the  fourth  day  which  followed  her  uncle's  return,  she 
saw  him  going  out  into  the  garden,  and  crossing  the  grounds  in 
the  direction  of  the  sea.  The  day  was  nearly  over,  but,  though 
cold,  it  was  still  and  bright.  Sybil  stole  out  from  the  drawing- 
room,  and  walking  fast,  soon  overtook  her  uncle.  She  found 
him  sitting  on  a  wooden  bench  which  faced  the  west,  and 
whence  the  eye  wandered  over  a  vast  expanse  of  beach  and  sea. 
The  tide  was  out,  and  the  sun  was  near  its  setting.  The  brown 
shore,  with  its  glistening  pools  and  shining  patches  of  sand. 


208  sybil's  second  love. 

looked  like  a  vast  map.  Continents,  islands,  seas,  mountain 
ridges,  spread  there  in  endless  variety.  Her  uncle  seemed  ab- 
sorbed in  contemplation,  and  scarcely  heeded  her  approach. 

"  Uncle,"  she  said  impetuously,  "  why  will  you  not  write  to 
me  ?  Have  I  offended  you  ?  Ah  !  if  you  hut  knew  how  I  long 
for  those  letters  of  yours  !  They  seem  to  draw  the  sting  from 
the  pain." 

"  Does  not  Miss  Cains  comfort  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

«  No— no,"  rePue(l  Sybil,  with  an  impatient  sigh.  "  She 
does  her  best,  but  she  does  not  know  how  to  do  it." 

"  And  your  father,  and  your  aunt— have  they  no  comfort  to 
give  you?  " 

"They  are  too  angry  to  pity  me.  Besides,  you  alone" know 
all.  But,  uncle,  I  fear  you  grudge  me  your  kindness.  I  dare 
say  I  bore  you  ?  "  -     _ 

"  I  grudge  you  nothing,  Sybil ;  but  I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

"  Something,"  she  mechanically  repeated,  "  what  some- 
thing ? " 

.  "  Sybil,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  look  at  that  field  of  flame, 
and  that  other  field  of  blue  ;  look  at  those  clouds  that  ripple 
along  the  sky  like  the  waves  of  a  fiery  ocean,  and  say  is  it  not  all 
divine  ?  What  Greek  poet  was  it  who  vowed  that  to  behold  the 
glory  of  this  wonderful  universe,  and  die,  was  bliss  enough  for 
man?  Why  are  we  not  as  wise  as  this?  Why  can  we  not  be 
satisfied  with  beauty,  but  must  needs  have  more — love,  ambition, 
glory,  fame,  and  what  not?  The  pleasures  of  the  eye  are  the 
first  and  the  truest ;  God  gave  them  to  all,  and  they  need  never 
fail  us.  Is  it  daily  use  that  palls,  or  are  our  hearts  too  covetous 
or  too  frail  to  feed  on  food  so  pure  and  ethereal  ?  God  knows 
— but  you  need  not  give  me  that  reproachful  look,  Sybil.  I 
have  not  lived  on  sunsets,  and  could  not  do  it.  I  require  more 
human  food,  and  am  not  so  far  severed  from  my  kind  as  to  pre- 
fer the  most  glorious  sky  to  a  friendly  face ;  and  if  I  had  not 
that  touch  of  human  kindness,  I  could  not  give  you  comfort, 
could  T,  Sybil?" 

"  No,"  replied  Sybil,  "  nor  would  I  like  you  as  I  do,  uncle. 
But  you  said  you  had  something  to  tell  me?" 

"  True — I  wish  it  were  easier  to  tell.  Well,  Sybil,  do  yon 
remember  once  opening  a  letter  directed  to  me?  " 

Sybil  remembered  it. 

"  I  left  Saint  Vincent  that  same  night,  Did  you  question 
your  father  after  I  was  gone?" 


sybil's  second  love.  209 

"  No." 

"  And  he  gave  you  no  explanation — lie  made  no  comment  ? '' 

"  He  did  not." 

"But,  Sybil,  did  it  not  seem  strange  to  you  that  your 
father's  surname  and  mine  should  be  different  ? " 

"  Well,  it  did,"  hesitatingly  replied  Sybil. 

"  And  yet  you  believe  I  am  your  father's  brother  ? " 

"  I  do." 

"  And  you  have  never  doubted  it  ?  " 

"  Never  ! "  replied  Sybil,  blushing  in  her  very  earnestness. 

"  But  how  did  you  explain  it  ? " 

"  I  thought  you  were  my  father's  half  brother." 

"  No,  Sybil,  that  is  not  it ;  you  must  find  something  else." 

Sybil  looked  bewildered. 

"  Then  it  is  not  your  real  name  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Dermot  ?  Oh  !  yes,  Dermot  is  my  name,"  he  quietly  re- 
plied, "Edward  Dermot." 

"  Uncle,  I  do  not  understand  it." 

"Because  you  are  the  soul  of  truth,  Sybil,  and  have  no  con- 
ception of  disguise,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her  kindly ;  "  and 
yet  the  riddle  is  so  clear  that  a  child  could  read  it.  Why,  the 
plain  truth  is,  that  I  am  not  your  father's  brother." 

Sybil  never  forgot  the  shock  these  words  gave  her,  it  was  so 
cruel  and  so  keen,  like  the  sudden  severing  of  a  limb.  She 
clung  to  the  relationship  even  more  than  to  the  friendship,  or 
rather  she  had  built  up  the  friendship  on  that  imaginary  tie  of 
blood.  Take  away  the  foundation,  and  the  whole  fabric 
crumbled  and  perished.  She  gazed  on  this  stranger,  who  had 
usurped  so  long  a  share  of  her  affection,  with  mingled  grief  and 
indignation ;  but  wrath  quickly  followed  on  sorrow.  She  re- 
membered how  she  trusted  and  obeyed  him,  she  remembered 
her  filial  freedom  and  tenderness;  and  young  and  inexperienced 
though  she  was,  she  was  woman  enough  to  kuow  and  resent  her 
wrong. 

"  Why,  then,  did  you  ever  tell  me  you  were  my  uncle  ?  " 
she  cried,  rising  from  his  side,  and  her  eyes  flashing. 

"  I  never  did,"  he  sharply  answered. 

Sybil's  memory  could  not  indeed  bring  back  one  instance 
in  which  he  had  asserted  that  falsehood. 

"  But  you  implied  it,"  she  said — "  you  implied  it." 

"  Never  !  "  he  said  flatly. 

His  cool  look  and  tone  exasperated  her.  The  blood  rushed 
up  to  her  face. 


210  SYBIL  S  SECOND  LOVE. 

"  You  cannot  say  you  did  not  know  that  I  believed  it,"  she 
said — "  you  cannot  say  that,  Mr.  Dermot ! " 

"  If  I  had  not  known  it,  need  I  now  undeceive  you  ? " 

Sybil  could  not  answer  this.  She  felt  in  a  tumult  of  anger 
and  grief.  She  would  not  tax  her  father  with  the  falsehood, 
though  she  knew  he  was  the  guilty  one,  and  with  all  her  wrath 
she  saw  that  Mr.  Dennot  disdained  justifying  himself  at  Mr. 
Kennedy's  expense. 

"  And  why  do  you  tell  it  to  me  now  ? "  she  asked,  with  the 
unreasonableness  of  anger — "  I  had  no  doubt — I  put  no  ques- 
tions— why  do  you  tell  it  to  me  now  ?  " 

Spite  the  twilight,  she  saw  the  flush  on  his  face  deepen  into 
crimson.  Mr.  Dermot  had  strong  and  good  reasons  for  telling 
Svbil,  but  he  did  not  choose  to  state  such  reasons  to  her.  He 
kuewT  in  what  channel  Miss  Glyn's  suspicion  flowed  ;  but  though 
he  scorned  it,  he  could  not,  and  would  not,  mention  it  to  her 
niece.  There  are  violations  of  friendship  from  which  the  mind 
recoils  with  a  sort  of  abhorrence.  Doubt  becomes  a  wrong,  and 
had  best  be  left  unspoken.  Something  of  this  Sybil  guessed, 
but  not  all,  for  Miss  Glyn  had  been  more  watchful  than  com- 
municative, and  what  she  did  guess,  confirmed  by  Mr.  Dermot's 
silence,  only  incensed  her  more  deeply  against  him. 

"  Mr.  Dermot — "  she  began. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  interrupted,  "but  until  your  father  chooses 
to  tell  you  so,  you  must  not  call  me  Mr.  Dermot.  You  must 
call  me  Uncle  Edward,  as  he  bade  you.  It  is  to  you,  not  to 
the  world,  that  I  have  acknowledged  the  want  of  relationship." 

"  The  world  is  not  here,"  impetuously  cried  Sybil ;  "  you 
need  not  fear  sea  or  sky,  Mr.  Dennot,  and  Mr.  Dermot  I  will 
call  you,  and  I  will  tell  you  how  I  detest  the  deceit  you  have 
practised  upon  a  credulous  girl.  I  could  forgive  him"  she 
added,  in  a  broken  voice  ;  "  he  began  with  truth  ;  he  intended 
nothing ;  he  was  led  away  by  passion  for  one  better,  hand- 
somer, more  seducing  by  far  than  I  am,  but  you  deliberately 
made  a  jest  of  me.  Deliberately  you  drew  me  out  wTith  the 
false  seeming  of  an  affection  you  could  not  feel ;  you  have 
wronged  me,  Mr.  Dermot — you  have  wronged  me  ! " 

Her  voice  was  broken  by  tears.  He  looked  much  moved, 
and  went  up  to  her  with  extended  hand  ;  but  Sybil  drew  her- 
self up,  looked  two  inches  taller,  and  put  her  hands  behind  her 
back. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  said — "  for  my  father's  sake  I  will  act  a 


Sybil's  second  love.  211 

part ;  but,  as  I  said,  the  world  is  not  here,  and  I  cannot.  Good- 
night, Mr.  Dermot." 

He  did  not  answer  her ;  he  looted  displeased,  and  cold 
enough,  and  let  her  wait  away.  Sybil  did  not  go  far.  She 
stopped  to  think  over  this  new  wrong.  Oh  !  its  bitterness  was 
unutterable  !  How  she  had  loved  and  trusted  that  second  de- 
ceiver ! 

"  Oh  !  why  was  he  not  true  ?  "  she  moaned — "  why  was  he 
not  true  ? " 

She  heard  a  step  quick  and  firm — it  was  his ;  she  shrank 
back,  and  stood  concealed,  thinking  perhaps  he  was  seeking 
her,  but  Mr.  Dermot  had  no  such  thought.  He  probably  saw 
her,  but  looked  neither  right  nor  left,  and  walked  straight  on, 
composedly  smoking  a  cigar.  Sybil's  look  followed  him  with 
anger,  sorrow,  and  regret.  Spite  all  her  wrath,  she  admired 
him — spite  all  her  grief,  she  thought,  with  a  sort  of  joy,  "I  am 
sure  he  liked  me,"  and  with  the  regret  there  blended  a  remorse- 
ful hope,  which  pride  checked  quickly. 

"  He  saw  me,  and  he  passed  on,"  she  thought — "  let  him  ! — 
let  him  ! " 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

"  The  world  is  not  here,"  Sybil  had  said,  but  Sybil  was  mis- 
taken. The  world  was  there,  though  neither  she  nor  Mr.  Dermot 
knew  it.  Within  ten  paces  of  them,  but  half  concealed  by  an 
elder-tree,  sat  Miss  Cains,  as  calm  and  still  in  her  garden  chair 
as  the  lady  in  Comus.  She  had  not  come  there  to  listen,  for 
she  was  there  before  them ;  but  though  they  came  she  stayed, 
and  after  they  wrere  gone  she  remained.  She,  too,  saw  the  sun- 
set and  the  flaming  sky,  and  the  glow  that  for  a  moment  wrapped 
the  brown  shore  and  receding  sea;  and  now  she  saw  the  stars 
that  shone  faintly  in  the  twilight,  and  a  full  moon  that  seemed 
to  come  forth  from  some  hidden  chamber  of  the  west,  all  pale 
and  languid,  and  the  gray  cliffs  that  faded  away,  spectre-like,  in 
the  chilly-white  sea-mist. 

She  saw  them  all,  but  not  with  the  mind's  eye.  This  was 
fastened  intently  on  other  scenes.  Warm  rooms,  luxurious  and 
brilliant ;  gay  faces  of  pleasure-seekers  were  there,  and  music 
and  soft  worldly  voices — 


212  sybil's  second  love. 

Suddenly  the  vision  vanished,  for  Miss  Cains  heard  a  step 
coming  toward  her,  then  stopping  short.  She  knew  it,  and, 
without  turning  round,  she  said  calmly, 

"  Sybil  is  gone,  Miss  Glyn." 

"  Was  she  with  you,  Miss  Cains  ? "  quickly  asked  Sybil's 
aunt. 

"  No,  but  she  was  here." 

"  Alone  % " 

"  Oh,  no — not  alone." 

There  was  a  pause  ;  then  Miss  Glyn  resumed. 

"May  I  ask  with  whom,  Miss  Cains?" 

"  It  was  dark — besides,  I  did  not  look." 

"  But  I  suppose  you  heard  them,  Miss  Cains  ? " 

Blanche  was  silent  awhile.  At  length  she  turned  round 
slowly,  and  said  in  an  even,  measured  voice — 

"  I  did ;  but  they  did  not  know  I  was  here.  They  spoke  as 
freely  as  if  they  were  alone ;  and  I  will  forget  every  word  they 
uttered — besides,  they  spoke  of  that  which  concerns  themselves 
only." 

She  turned  back  from  Miss  Glyn,  as  if  she  had  nothing  more 
to  say  to  her.  Miss  Glyn  felt  troubled  to  the  very  heart.  She 
had  seen  Mr.  Dermot  crossing  the  grounds,  and  Sybil  going  out 
soon  after  him ;  and  just  as  she  was  preparing  to  follow  her 
niece,  Mrs.  Ronald  had  driven  up  to  the  door,  and  paid  her  a 
short  visit,  which  seemed  endless  to  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Miss  Cains,"  she  said,  a  little  agitatedly,  "  far  be  it  from 
me  to  tempt  you  to  do  wrong,  but  you  are  in  Sybil's  confi- 
dence— " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Miss  Cains,  rather  moodily;  "  I  was  once, 
or  thought  I  was  so,  but  I  have  learned  to-night  that  my  place 
is  filled!" 

This  speech  only  added  to  Miss  Glyn's  emotion  and  perplex- 
ity.    She  stooped  to  entreaty. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Miss  Cains  ! "  she  implored,  "  if  you 
know  any  thing — " 

"And  what  should  I  know  that  you  do  not  know  ten  times 
better  ? "  interrupted  Miss  Cains.  "  What  can  I,  a  stranger, 
know  of  family  affairs  and  secrets,  Miss  Glyn  ?  " 

Her  tone  was  aggressive  and  defiant. 

"  And  who  says  there  are  family  secrets  ? "  asked  Miss  Glyn, 
rather  incensed.  "  It  is  you,  Miss  Cains,  who  make  mysteries 
out  of  nothing.     I  only  ask  to  know  who  was  with  my  niece." 


sybil's  second  love.  213 

"And  why  do  you  question  me,  Miss  Glyn?  They  did  not 
know  I  was  here,  and  I  dare  say  I  should  have  gone  away,  or 
shown  myself.     I  did  neither,  but  I  need  not  turn  tale-bearer  for 

that." 

Miss  Glyn  lost  her  temper. 

"  Tale-bearer  !  and  who  asked  you  to  be  a  tale-bearer  ?  "  she 
ciied,  very  angrily. 

"  Why,  then,  if  you  do  not,  do  you  want  to  know  what  passed 
between  them  ?  "  retorted  Miss  Cains.  "  What  can  there  be," 
she  added,  with  a  scornful  emphasis,  "  in  a  conversation  between 
uncle  and  niece  ? " 

"  He  is  not  her  uncle  !  "  cried  Miss  Glyn,  trembling  with 
passion  ;  "  he  is  an  impostor — a  vile  impostor — and  your  very 
tone  tells  me  that  you  know  it,  Miss  Cains,  and  my  belief  is  that 
you  abet  them." 

Miss  Cains  laughed  and  rose. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said ;  "  you  may  think  so  if  you  please, 
but  you  wrong  him.  Miss  Glyn,  he  is  no  impostor.  Impostors 
deceive ;  he  does  not.  He  was  very  plain-spoken  this  evening, 
I  can  tell  you." 

She  walked  leisurely  away,  leaving  Miss  Glyn  angry  with 
her  indeed,  but  exasperated  against  "  the  impostor."  Her  re- 
sentment against  that  unfortunate  gentleman  had  begun  with 
her  first  knowledge  of  him,  but  had  risen  to  its  height  since  his 
return  to  Saint  Vincent.  That  he  had  broken  off  her  niece's 
match  with  the  count  she  felt  sure  ;  and  not  knowing,  and  not 
wishing  even  to  guess  the  excellent  reasons  he  had  for  doing  so, 
the  good  lady  hated  him  as  cordially  as  if  he  had  inflicted  some 
mortal  wrong  on  Sybil.  This  feeling  of  anger  Miss  Glyn  had 
now  nursed  up  for  some  time,  and  she  had  nursed  it  all  the 
more  fondly  that  she  had  kept  it  strictly  to  herself.  She  had 
watched,  and  suspected,  and  drawn  conclusions,  but  she  had 
not  breathed  a  word,  she  had  not  even  dropped  a  hint.  Now, 
Miss  Glyn  was  a  practical  woman.  She  never  cherished  useless 
feelings,  and  revenge — practical  revenge,  not  the  theory  of  that 
unamiable  feeling — had  been  in  her  mind  all  along.  As  she  now 
walked  back  toward  the  house,  she  felt  that  her  opportunity 
was  at  hand,  and  she  entered  the  drawing-room  ready  for  action. 
Every  thing  was  as  Miss  Glyn  could  have  wished  it  to  be. 
Mr.  Dermot  stood  talking  to  Miss  Cains,  who  had  just  come  in, 
and  Sybil  sat  apart  near  the  farthest  table,  with  an  open  book 
lying  on  it  before  her. 


214  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Sybil,  where  have  you  been  ?  "  asked  Miss  Glyn. 

"  I  was  in  the  grounds,  aunt." 

"And  with  whom,  pray?" 

"  With — with  uncle,"  hesitatingly  answered  Sybil. 

This  was  the  very  word  Miss  Glyn  wanted. 

"  Sybil,"  she  said,  "  you  will  oblige  me  by  not  calling  that 
person  your  uncle." 

Sybil  gave  her  a  startled  look,  but  Mr.  Dermot  took  up  the 
glove  which  Miss  Glyn  had  thus  thrown  down. 

"  May  I  know  why  Sybil  is  not  to  call  me  uncle  ? "  he  asked 
coolly. 

"  Because  you  are  not  her  uncle,  sir,"  impetuously  cried  Miss 
Glyn  ;  "  because  you  are  an  intruder  on  the  privacy  of  this  fam- 
ily, and  because,  though  James  Kennedy  is  the-father  of  Sybil, 
and  the  master  of  the  house,  he  has  no  right  to  deceive  his 
child  with  false  relationships." 

"Then  scold  him,  Miss  Glyn,"  very  coolly  said  Mr.  Dermot. 

Now  the  word  "  scold"  greatly  exasperated  Miss  Glyn,  who 
was  conscious  that  her  voice  had  risen  above  the  pitch  of  lady- 
like decorum.     Her  eyes  flashed,  her  lips  quivered. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said,  "  thank  you,  Mr. — excuse  me  if 
I  do  not  add  your  name — but  I  do  not  know  it." 

"  You  are  welcome  to  it,  Miss  Glyn,"  he  answered ;  "  and  I 
have  no  doubt  that  if  my  brother,  James  Kennedy — " 

"  Your  brother,  sir  ? "  she  interrupted  indignantly,  "  how 
dare  you  call  him  your  brother !  " 

"My  brother-in-law  if  you  like,"  he  composedly  replied. 
"You  are  doubtless  aware  that  James  Kennedy's  second  wife 
was  my  sister  ? " 

Now  Miss  Glyn  was  aware  of  no  such  thing,  Mr.  Kennedy's 
second  marriage  being  one  of  those  trifling  circumstances  of  his 
life  he  had  nut  mentioned  to  his  first  wife's  family.  Her  sur- 
prise was  almost  ludicrous,  and  for  a  while  placed  her  at  the 
mercy  of  her  opponent.  She  rallied  at  length,  and  boldly  de- 
nied all. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  she  said,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  "  I 
do  not  believe  it.  James  Kennedy  was  married  but  once,  and 
that  to  Sybil's  mother." 

"  He  was  married  twice,  and  my  sister,  though  she  lived  but 
a  few  months,  brought  him  those  means  of  fortune  which  he 
enjoys  to-day,  Miss  Glyn." 

Miss  Glyn  was  convinced,  spite  of  herself,  but  the  conviction 
rather  exasperated  than  mollified  her. 


sybil's  second  love.  215 

"  "What  about  all  that !  "  she  cried  "with  vehement  indisjna- 
tion.  "  Were  you  ten  times  his  brother-in-law,  you  were  none 
the  less  here  under  an  assumed  character,  and  I  call  that  dis- 
graceful." 

"  He  has  green  eyes,"  thought  Sybil,  as  she  saw  the  angry 
light  which  passed  in  Mr.  Derinot's  eyes  when  he  heard  this  in- 
sulting address,  but  it  only  passed  there  like  a  flash,  and  left 
him  cool  as  before.  He  drew  himself  up  slightly,  however,  and 
his  tone  and  manner  had  considerable  dignity  as  he  replied, 

"  Miss  Glyn,  if  you  had  chosen  to  attack  me  privately,  I 
should  not  have  condescended  to  justify  myself;  but  you  have 
done  so  in  the  presence  of  witnesses  whose  esteem  I  do  not 
wish  to  forfeit.  "Wonder  not  if  I  now  say  that  which  you  will 
repent  hearing  spoken." 

"  And  pray  what  can  that  be  ?  "  scornfully  asked  Miss  Glyn. 

"  My  name,  if  you  like  it  ? " 

"  I  confess  to  you,  sir,  I  should  like  it  of  all  things.  It  is 
so  awkward  to  address  a  person  whose  name  you  do  not  know. 
And  I  cannot  help  thinking  you  must  have  found  it  awkward 
in  this  house.  You  certainly  did  very  well  not  to  go  to  par- 
ties, for  how  could  you  have  been  introduced  ?   It  would  not  do." 

"  My  name,"  he  deliberately  replied,  "  is  Edward  Dermot." 

On  hearing  this  name,  Miss  Glyn  looked  fairly  thunder- 
struck. She  stared  at  her  enemy,  and  opened  her  mouth,  but 
said  nothing. 

"Are  you  satisfied?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  vaguely  replied ;  but  she  sat  down  with  a  thor- 
oughly confused  look. 

"  Mr.  Dermot,  however,  maintained  his  composure.  He  had 
spoken  in  a  low,  even  tone,  deliberate  and  clear ;  calm,  but  not 
without  scorn.  And  he  now  looked  at  Miss  Glyn,  with  a 
steady  light  shining  in  his  gray  eyes,  which  that  lady  did  not 
seem  well  able  to  withstand.  Perhaps  she  felt  conquered  by  a 
will,  a  mind,  and  a  nature,  too,  greater  than  her  own  ;  perhaps 
his  cold  repulse  of  her  ungenerous  attacks  silenced  her,  or  some 
other  reason  equally  potent  kept  her  mute.  However  this 
might  be,  Miss  Glyn,  who  was  good,  but  by  no  means  great, 
would  not  repent,  would  not  retract,  would  not  utter  a  soft, 
atoning  word,  but  remained  forbidding  and  stern.  She  took  up 
her  work,  and  tightened  her  lips ;  Sybil  returned  to  her  book, 
and  Miss  Cains  quietly  rose  and  left  the  room.  She  had  not 
long  been  gone  when  the  door  opened  and  gave  admittance  to 


216  STBIL  S    SECOND   LOYE. 

Mr.  Kennedy.  From  the  threshold  he  looted  at  the  three.  At 
once  he  felt  that  peculiar  atmosphere  which  marks  domestic 
storms.  Mr.  Dermot  stood  hy  the  fireplace,  glancing^  over  a 
newspaper,  Miss  Glyn  was  stitching  with  close  assiduity,  and 
Sybil  sat  apart,  with  her  cheek  resting  on  her  hand. 

"  A  headache,  Pussy  ? "  said  Mr.  Kennedy. 

Sybil  assented.  Yes,  her  head  was  very  bad.  She  said  no 
more.  It  was  plain  that  within  that  fortress  she  meant  to  re- 
trench herself,  and  keep  fast. 

"  But  you  have  no  headache,  Miss  Glyn  ?  " 

Miss  Glyn  put  down  her  work,  and  Mr.  Dermot  looked  up 
from  his  paper. 

"  No,  Mr.  Kennedy,  I  have  no  headache,  and  therefore  we 
can  have  some  talk  together,  if  you  please." 

"  Just  so,"  answered  Mr.  Kennedy,  stretching  himself  at 
full  length  in  an  easv-chair,  and  folding  his  hands  before  him, 
with  a  look  as  careless  as  civility  allowed. 

"Mr.  Dermot,"  began  Miss  Glyn.  Mr.  Kennedy  gave  a 
little  start.  "  Mr.  Dermot  tells  me"  he  is  your  brother-iu-law. 
Of  course  I  believe  him." 

"  Of  course,"  calmly  assented  Mr.  Kennedy. 

"  But  pray  why  did  you  not  tell  us  you  married  again  ?  " 

"  And  pray  where  was  the  need  to  tell  you  ?  It  would  not 
have  added  to  your  happiness,  prosperity,  or  comfort,  that  I 
know  of." 

The  cool  audacity  of  his  tone  exasperated  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said  very  warmly,  "  you  have  no  right 
to  deceive  the  family  you  entered." 

"  That  is  an  open  question ;  but,  at  all  events,  a  very  old 
one.  I  was  married  to  Dermot's  sister,  let  me  see,  yes,  it  is 
fourteen  years  ago." 

Miss  Glyn  compelled  herself  to  be  calm,  and  to  say,  very 
calmly, 

"  Why  did  you  tell  me  that  Mr.  Dermot  was  your  brother?" 

"  Well,  because  he  is  my  brother,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Mr. 
Kennedy,  composedly  ;  "  and,  since  you  know  who  he  is,  Miss 
Glyn,  you  surely  remember  that  he  has  stood  twice  between 
ruin  and  me,  and  once  saved  your  fortune  as  well  as  mine.  I 
think  the  name  of  Dermot  is  not  one  we  are  likely  to  forget." 

"  No,  Mr.  Kennedy,  it  is  not,"  replied  Miss  Glyn,  drawing 
herself  up  ;  "  but  you  must  allow  me  to  wonder  that  it  was 
suppressed,  and  made  a  mystery  to  mc." 


SYBIL'S    SECttSTD   LOYE.  217 

Mr.  Kennedy  looked  the  picture  of  amazement. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Glyn,  you  cannot  be  serious  !  Who  ever 
made  a  mystery  of  it  ?  " 

Miss  Glyn  felt  silenced.  Unknown  though  he  was  to  her  in 
person,  Mr.  Dermot  was  very  well  known  to  her  by  name.  He 
was  wealthy  and  generous,  and  Mr.  Kennedy's  fast  friend.  Twice 
he  had  come  to  his  help  when  ruin  seemed  imminent,  and  once 
his  intervention  had  thus  saved  Miss  Glyn's  little  fortune.  It 
was  very  awkward,  therefore,  for  Miss  Glyn  to  contradict  Mr. 
Kennedy  when  he  asserted,  in  Mr.  Dennot's  presence,  that  this 
gentleman's  name  had  never  been  made  a  mystery  of  in  Saint 
Vincent ;  at  the  same  time,  she  would  not  assent  even  tacitly  to 
so  barefaced  a  falsehood.     So  she  rose,  and  said  shortly: 

"  We  shall  speak  of  this  again  to-morrow,  Mr.  Kennedy." 

"  Whenever  you  please,  Mary,"  he  blandly  replied,  and  ris- 
ing, he  saw  her  out  with  his  usual  courtesy. 

As  he  came  back  to  his  seat,  he  said  to  Mr.  Dermot : 

"  I  suppose  those  papers  are  all  right  ?  " 

Mr.  Dermot,  who  had  remained  silent  and  grave  till  then, 
looked  up,  and  replied — 

"  I  suppose  so,  but  I  shall  see." 

He  left  the  room  as  he  spoke.  Mr.  Kennedy  stretched  him- 
self, yawned,  looked  round,  and  saw  Sybil,  who  still  sat  apart, 
with  her  cheek  on  her  hand. 

"  Pussy,  come  here,"  he  said. 

Sybil  obeyed,  and  came  up  to  him.  Mr.  Kennedy  drew  her 
on  his  knee,  and  kissed  her.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had 
rejected  the  count,  he  seemed  friendly  and  kind. 

"  How  did  all  this  come  about,  Pussy  ? "  he  asked,  smiliug. 

"  I  called  Mr.  Dermot  uncle,  and  aunt  o:ot  ano-rv." 

"  Well,  well,  let  her — you  need  not  tell  Miss  Cains,  Pussy." 

"  She  was  here,  papa." 

"  Was  she  ?  Well,  no  matter ;  it  is  very  absurd  of  Miss 
Glyn  to  go  on  so.  She  knew — every  one  knew — I  have  no 
brother." 

"  Papa,  who  is  he  ? " 

"  Why,  Pussy,  surely  you  can  see — a  good,  handsome,  and 
accomplished  gentleman — a  rich  one,  too." 

"  And  he  is  the  Mr.  Dermot  of  whom  Mr.  Smith  spoke  ?  " 

Mr.  Kennedy  laughed. 

"  Mr.  Smith  again  ? — you  are  smitten  with  him,  I  believe. 
By  the  way,  Pussv,  you  and  Dermot  must  be  good  friends. 
10* 


218  sybil's  second  love. 

You  looked  rather  unkindly  at  him  this  evening.  "What  was 
the  cause  of  quarrel,  pray  ? " 

"  No  cause,  but  he  is  not  my  uncle,"  replied  Sybil,  looking 
indignant. 

Her  father  laughed. 

"  My  dear,  he  cannot  help  that.  Besides,  call  him  uncle, 
if  you  like.  It  is  affectionate,  and  not  formal,  like  Mr.  Der- 
mot. And  so  I  always  meant  it.  And  please  to  make  it  up 
with  him,':  he  added,  rising — "  I  shall  send  him  in  to  you." 

"  No — pray  do  not !  "  cried  Sybil,  looking  distressed. 

"Yes,  Pussy,  I  will;  and  receive  him  kindly,  if  you  please 
— I  know  what  I  am  about." 

Sybil  could  have  cried  with  vexation,  but  her  father  would 
not  see  it.  He  was  a  man  who  never  neglected  one  of  life's 
chances.  Mr.  Dermot  was  a  stanch  friend,  and  any  one 
could  see  that  he  liked  Sybil  very  much.  That  liking  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy would  not  allow  to  cool,  or  to  grow  estranged,  lest  the 
friendship  should  suffer  thereby,  and  as  he  closed  the  drawing- 
room  door  he  said  again : 

"  Mind  you  receive  him  kindly,  Sybil." 

When  Mr.  Kennedy  called  his  daughter  Sybil,  he  meant  to 
be  obeyed. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

Sybil  sat  and  waited,  but  in  no  placable  mood.  AVho  and 
what  was  that  Mr.  Dermot,  that  she  should  be  friends  with  him, 
whether  she  liked  it  or  not  ?  He  would  come  and  forgive  her, 
and  she  did  not  want  to  be  forgiven.  She  detested  him,  and 
nothing,  and  no  one,  should  make  her  like  him. 

But  Mr.  Dermot  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  come  and  make  it 
up  with  her.  A  full  quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed  before  he  en- 
tered the  drawing-room,  and  then  he  went  and  sat  by  the 
chimney,  poking  the  fire  in  his  restless  way,  and  not  even  look- 
ing toward  her.  Sybil  got  almost  angry.  Was  she  going  to 
beg  his  forgiveness  ?     Did  he  expect  that  ? 

"Sybil,"  at  length  said  Mr.  Dermot,  "pray  come  here,  and 
sit  by  me." 

He  spoke  very  gently,  and  drew  a  chair  for  her  close  to  his, 


Sybil's  second  love.  219 

but  Sybil  complied  with  an  ill  grace,  and  looked  by  no  means 
charmed  to  be  so  near  him.  He  gazed  at  her  for  a  few  seconds, 
then  smiled  a  grave,  reproachful  smile,  and  said : 

"  So  your  father's  friend  cannot  be  yours,  Sybil  ? " 

"  If  you  were  Uncle  Edward,"  she  began — 

"My  dear,"  he  interrupted,  "let  Uncle  Edward  rest — he  is 
dead  and  gone ;  and  Edward  Dermot,  who  is  alive  and  well, 
thank  God! " — here  he  shook  his  hair  a  little  defiantly,  as  if  he 
meant,  "  no  thanks  to  man  for  it !  " — "  Edward  Dermot  has  only 
this  to  say,  if  you  can  give  him  some  share  of  your  liking  he  will 
be  glad ;  if  you  cannot,  he  will  bear  the  loss  with  patience ;  but 
whatever  you  do,  he  will  expect  civility  from  the  mistress  of  the 
house." 

As  he  uttered  the  last  words,  Mr.  Dermot  gently  laid  his 
hand  on  Sybil's,  and  bent  the  look  of  his  keen  gray  eyes  full 
upon  hers.  Sybil  tried  to  brave  that  look,  but  she  could  not. 
Her  lids  fell,  her  color  rose,  her  lips  quivered,  and  pride  alone 
prevented  her  tears  from  falling.  In  a  moment  his  look,  his 
tone,  altered  completely. 

"  "What !  am  I  making  you  cry  ? "  he  said  with  concern. 
"Svbil,  I  did  not  intend  it — vou  have  had  trouble  enough. 
God  forbid  I  should  add  even  a  feather's  weight  to  your 
burden ! " 

All  Sybil's  wrath  seemed  to  melt  away  as  she  heard  and  saw 
him.  In  vain  she  tried  to  keep  it — in  vain  she  wanted  to  be 
haughty,  defiant,  and  cold;  her  old  liking  was  still  strong  within 
her,  and  rose  uppermost  and  ruled  her  in  that  hour." 

"  Uncle,  Mr.  Dermot,  I  mean,"  said  Sybil,  looking  up,  half- 
frankly,  half-shyly,  "I  am  sorry  I  wras  so  rude  this  evening." 

"  You  were  not  rude,  my  dear,  but — well,  I  will  not  say 
what  you  were.  I  am  of  a  placable  nature  when  I  like,  and  will 
bear  much.  Still,  I  am  touchy,  and  if  you  care  for  me — do  not 
try  me  too  far." 

"  I  will  not — indeed  I  will  not !  "  penitently  replied  Sybil. 

"  There's  a  good  little  girl ! "  he  rejoined,  with  a  smile ; 
"  and  now  let  the  matter  drop.  What  shall  we  talk  of,  Sybil  \ 
Philosophy,  new  books,  our  friends,  etc." 

"Mr.  Dermot,"  said  Sybil, .gathering  courage  as  she  spoke, 
"  may  I  put  a  question  ?  " 

"  Assuredly,  seeing  that  I  am  always  free  not  to  answer  it." 

"  Well,  then,"  she  half- whispered,  "  who  are  you  \ " 

Mr.  Dermot  reddened;  but  he  laughed  carelessly. 


220  sybil's  second  love. 

"  My  dear,"  he  replied,  "  my  biography  is  a  short  one.  I 
am  a  gentleman  by  birth  and  education,  and  Edward  Dermot  i3 
my  name.  I  could  hang  up  my  hat  if  I  chose,  Heaven  having 
blessed  me  with  a  fair  portion  of  these,"  he  added,  taking  a 
handful  of  gold  pieces  out  of  his  pocket,  and  thrusting  it  back 
carelessly;  "but  I  like  work,  and,  therefore,  have  come  here  to 
help  your  father." 

"  And  your  sister  was  his  wife  ? "  asked  Sybil,  looking  dis- 
appointed at  so  meagre  and  uninteresting  a  history. 

"Yes,  she  was  an  heiress,  and  when  I  was  twelve  or  so  I 
helped  her  to  run  away  with  James  Kennedy." 

Sybil  brightened,  but  thought  herself  bound  to  say  rather 
severely, 

"  That  was  very  wrong." 

"  Of  course  it  was,  but  we  were  both  orphans,  and  not  kindly 
used.  Besides,  she  liked  your  father,  and,  boy-like,  I  fancied 
him  because  he  was  handsome  and  manly.  So  I  helped  their 
flight,  and  got  into  a  world  of  trouble  thereby.  Never  mind, 
James  Kennedy  gave  me  no  cause  to  repent  it.  If  my  sister 
lived  but  a  few  months  she  was  a  happy  wife,  and  for  years  he 
was  brother,  father,  and  guardian  to  me,  Sybil.  If  I  had  the 
education  of  a  gentleman — if  I  travelled  and  enjoyed  myself 
whilst  he  toiled — if  when  the  hour  for  labor  came,  the  means  of 
wealth  were  laid  at  my  command,  I  owe  it  all  to  your  father. 
And,  now,  little  girl,"  he  added,  looking  down  at  her  with  a 
smile,  "  will  you  wonder  if  that  man's  child  is  more  than  a  young 
lady  to  me  ? — will  you  wonder  if  I  bear  with  her  caprices — nay, 
with  her  scolding — " 

"Pray  don't,"  interrupted  Sybil,  looking  remorseful.      "I 
am  so  sorry — indeed  I  am." 

"  And  satisfied,  Sybil?" 

"  Yes,  but—" 

She  paused  and  hesitated. 

"But  what?" 

His  eyes  were  again  upon  her — keen,  grave,  and  watchful. 

"  I  mean  are  you  really  Mr.  Dermot  ? " 

"  Sybil ! " 

"  Mr.  Smith's  Mr.  Dermot  ?  " 

Mr.  Dermot  poked  the   fire  with   the  tongs,   and  slowly 
thrust  them  midst  the  burning  logs. 

"Mr.  Smith's  Mr.  Dermot!"  he  said  at  length.     "You  are 
no  flatterer,  Sybil.      I  am  my  own,  and  no  one  else's." 


sybil's  second  love.  221 

"Uncle,  I  did  not  mean  that,"  she  said  eagerly, 
"  Mean  what  ? " 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  mean  any  thing  that  could  offend  you." 
"  Oh,  I  am  not  offended,"   lie  carelessly  replied — "  only  I 
once  placed  a  seal  on  your  lips,  and  you  seem  to  have  forgotten 
it." 

Sybil  hung  her  head  abashed. 

"I  thought,"  she  stammered,  "that  as  your  name  was  made 
a  secret  of — "   / 

"A  secret !  "  he  interrupted  with  a  frown.  "  You  read  it  on 
my  letter,  and  therefore  the  postman  knew  it;  do  you  call  that 
a  secret  ? " 

"  Well,  hut  it  was  never  mentioned,"  persisted  Sybil. 

"  What  is  not  spoken  is  not  therefore  concealed,"  he  replied 
dryly.  "  Besides,"  he  added,  giving  his  heavy  hair  a  toss  that 
threw  it  back,  and  looking  at  Sybil  with  a  slightly  mocking 
smile,  "  when  your  father  ran  away  with  my  sister,  he  went  to 
an  out-of-the-way  place  and  stayed  there.  Suppose  I  too  have 
run  away  with  some  fair  lady,  or  princess,  for  all  you  know; 
and  that  fearing  the  displeasure  of  his  majesty  her  papa  the 
king,  I  wait  in  this  old  abbey  till  I  can  proclaim  my  marriage 
to  the  world  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  that,"  said  Sybil,  not  looking  well  pleased  ; 
"  there  is  no  princess  to  begin  with." 

"  Yes,  Sybil,  thefe  is,"  he  said,  looking  rather  moody,  "  a  fair, 
haughty,  implacable  princess,  who  loved  me  long,  but  who  is 
growing  coy  and  jealous,  and  fled  from  me  in  capricious  wrath 
but  I'll  win  her  back  yet — shall  I  not,  Sybil  ?" 

"  Uncle,  I  do  not  understand  you,"  replied  Sybil,  looking 
grave  and  puzzled. 

"  There  is  no  need  you  should,"  he  replied  with  a  short 
laugh ;  "  and  what  is  more,  I  expect  you  to  forget  every  word 
I  utter,  be  it  jest  or  earnest.  Let  Miss  Glyn  wonder,  and 
let  Miss  Cains  rail — be  you  silent." 

lie  spoke  with  a  gravity  that  impressed  Sybil. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Dcrmot,  I  will,"  she  replied  very  earnestly. 

"  And  now  I  must  leave  you,"  said  Mr.  Dermot,  looking  at 
the  clock.  "  Your  father  gave  me  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
make  peace  with  you,  and  the  articles  have  taken  me  two.  So 
good-evening,  Sybil." 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Dermot,"  and  she  placed  her  hand  in 
his,  oblivious  of  that  austere,  "  I  cannot,"  with  which  she  had 


222  sybil's  second  love. 

rejected  it  an  hour  before.  It  may  be  tbat  Mr.  Dermot  remem- 
bered this,  however,  for  though  his  pressure  of  her  hand  was 
friendly  and  cordial,  though  his  smile  was  genial,  there  was  also 
as  they  parted  a  flickering  triumphant  light  in  his  gray  eyes 
which  brought  the  color  up  to  Sybil's  cheek. 

Yet  when  the  door  closed  upon  him,  aud  she  remained 
alone,  Sybil  did  not  feel  displeased,  either  with  herself  or  her 
quondam  uncle.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  looking  at 
the  fire,  fell  in  a  pleasant  reverie.  She  forgot  the  story  of  her 
own  troubles  in  the  excitement  of  this  new  tale.  Dreams,  vague 
and  soft,  gathered  around  her,  and  she  let  them  come.  They 
were  gracious  of  aspect,  fair  v-isions,  in  which  falsehood  and 
reality,  the  princess  aud  Mr.  Dermot,  mingled.  But  no,  that 
would  not  do,  Mr.  Dermot  groaned  beneath  a  hated  yoke,  and 
yet  he  had  said  of  the  princess, 

" I'll  win  her  back  yet."  How  could  that  be  ?  "I  have  told 
him  every  thing,  and  he  tells  me  nothing,  or  speaks  in  riddles," 
thought  Sybil,  a  little  crossly ;  "  next  time  I  shall  tell  him  I  do 
not  like  it  at  all ;  and  if  I  do,  he  will  only  laugh  at  me,  and  say 
a  few  kind  words  that  will  melt  all  my  anger  away.  I  was  ever 
so  angry  awhile  back,  and  yet  he  had  but  to  speak,  and  it  was 
gone — how  does  he  do  it  ? " 

Perplexing  questions  !  IIow  do  they  ever  do  it,  they  whose 
gift  it  is  to  hold  the  key  that  unlocks  our  heart  ? 

"Well,  how  did  it  end?" 

Sybil  turned  round  with  a  start.  Behind  her  stood  Miss 
Cains.  Her  face  was  alive  with  excitement,  and  her  blue  eyes 
had  a  half-merry,  half-mischievous  look. 

"  I  never  heard  you  coming  in,"  Sybil  said. 

"  To  be  sure  not.  You  were  as  fast  as  the  sleeping  beauty 
in  the  wood.     Come,  tell  me  all  about  it." 

She  sat  down  in  Mr.  Dermot's  vacant  chair,  and  looked  both 
keen  and  eager. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell,"  replied  Sybil ;  "  why  did  you 
go  ? — you  need  not." 

"  Child,  it  was  getting  warm  for  one  not  of  the  family.  But 
to  think  of  that  false  uncle  of  yours  proving  such  a  deceiver ! 
How  indignantly  you  looked  at  him  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  felt  I  detested  him,"  frankly  replied  Sybil,  "and 
yet,  Blanche,  how  grand  he  looked  at  the  end  !  How  small 
aunt  seemed  near  him  !  " 

"  I  think  he  looked  very  vicious,  my  dear ;  and  as  he  is  not 


sybil's  second  love.  223 

your  uncle,  I  do  not  mind  speaking  my  mind  about  that  gen- 
tleman. Any  thing  more  wicked  than  his  green  eyes  I  never 
saw." 

"  You  too  saw  it ! "  cried  Sybil,  her  eyes  flashing ;  "  Blanche, 
it  was  terrible  ! " 

"  Quite  frightful,"  coolly  said  Miss  Cains. 

"  I  have  never  seen  an  angry  lion,"  continued  Sybil,  "  but 
so  I  fancy  would  he  look." 

"Yes,"  dryly  replied  Miss  Cains;  "lions  are  red,  so  there 
is  that  likeness  between  the  two,  otherwise  I  see  none.  The 
lion,  though  feline,  is  a  noble  sort  of  beast,  and  there  is  nothing 
noble  about  this  Mr.  Dermot.  He  looked  terribly  like  an  au- 
dacious swindler." 

"  He  ! "  cried  Sybil,  amazed,  "  he  !  " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Dermot.  Now  don't  mistake  me.  Of  course  he 
is  no  such  thing,  I  only  speak  of  his  looks." 

"  He  looks  a  hero,  every  inch  of  him,"  warmly  said  Sybil. 

"  And  you  hate  him — you  say  ?  " 

"  No,  Blanche,  I  was  wicked  this  evening ;  but — " 

"  But  the  charmer  came  in,  and  away  flew  your  wickedness. 
That  was  why  he  stayed  so  long.  I  thought  he  would  never 
leave  you.  Well,  well,  I  confess  Mr.  Dermot  is  eloquent — and, 
pray  who  is  he  ?     A  king  in  disguise,  at  the  very  least." 

"  I  dont  know,  Blanche." 

"  Ah  !  then  I  see  he  is  only  that  Mr.  Dermot  of  whom  you 
say  Mr.  Smith  spoke  so  much." 

She  bent  her  eyes  on  the  face  of  her  friend,  and  keen,  eager 
eyes  they  were  just  then,  wrakening  out  of  their  habitual  lan- 
guor into  quick,  searching  life.  Sybil  colored,  and  hesitated  as 
she  said, 

"  I  do  not  know  that  he  is  the  same,  Blanche." 

"Yes,  he  is;  and  I  remember  you  said  they  were  not 
friends.  Was  it  money,  or  business,  or — well,  why  do  you  look 
at  me  so  ? " 

"  Because  vou  seem  so  easier,  Blanche.  You  dislike  him — 
you  never  saw  him,  and  yet  you  do  seem  so  eager." 

"  This  is  a  dull  old  house,"  frankly  said  Miss  Cains  ;  "  and 
I  always  fouud  that  a  country  life  made  me  dreadfully  inquisi- 
tive. As  to  not  liking  Lion,  since  you  think  him  a  lion,  that  is 
ju"t  the  reason  for  trying  to  find  out  some  wickedness  about 
him  ;  and,  indeed,  my  dear,  I  may  as  well  inform  you  that  my 
sympathies  are  all  for  Mr.  Smith,  poor,  dear  old  fellow,  with 


22tl  SYBIL'S    SECOND   LOVE.  ' 

his  letter  H.  I  am  sure  he  was  right,  and  Green  eyes  was 
wrong,  whatever  the  quarrel  may  have  been  about — I  dare  say 
it  was  money,  the  universal  cause  of  all  quarrels  ;  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that  poor  Mr.  Smith  was  shamefully  plundered." 

"  It  was  not  about  money,"  dryly  said  Sybil  ;  "I  am  sure 
of  that.     It  was  about  some  invention." 

"  Ah  !  well,  then,  Mr.  Dermot  had  plundered  him  of  his 
idea.  Poor  Mr.  Smith  ! — I  am  getting  quite  fond  of  him.  De- 
pend upon  it,  Mr.  Dermot  is  hiding  from  him  here,  and  that 
was  why  he  took  an  assumed  name." 

"  But  he  never  did  take  an  assumed  name,"  cried  Sybil,  a 
little  warmly ;  "  papa  told  me  he  was  to  be  called  Uncle  Ed- 
ward, and  there  was  an  end  of  it." 

"  And  you  understood  that  Uncle  Edward  meant  Mr.  Ed- 
ward Kennedy,  and  so  did  every  one." 

"  Blanche,  I  never  heard  you  call  him  Mr.  Kennedy." 

Miss  Cains  looked  annoyed. 

"  I  perceive,"  she  said,  a  little  shortly,  "  that  I  must  not 
say  a  word  against,  or,  indeed,  about  that  mysterious  gentle- 


man." 


Sybil  did  not  answer.  Miss  Cains  looked  at  her  with  a 
mocking  smile. 

"Mind  your  heart,  my  dear,"  she  said,  with  cool  sarcasm  ; 
"  mind  your  heart." 

Sybil's  first  speechless  amazement  was  followed  by  a  blush 
and  a  look,  both  so  expressive  of  offended  modesty  and 
wounded  pride,  that  Miss  Cains  was  rather  disconcerted. 

"  Now,  darling,"  she  said,  "  don't  look  so — don't." 

"  How  have  I  deserved  it  ? "  asked  Sybil,  with  some  emo- 
tion ;  "  how  have  I  deserved  it  ? " 

"  Well,  then,  I  believe  I  am  jealous — that  is  the  truth," 
bluntly  said  Blanche;  "I  am  jealous  of  that  Greeneycs,  who 
has  such  a  hold  of  you." 

Sybil  was  mollified  at  once. 

"  Jealous  of  him,  of  any  one  !  "  she  said,  fondly  throwing  her 
arms  around  the  neck  of  her  friend. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cains,  returning  the  caress,  "you  have 
such  endless  conversations,  it  is  quite  irritating.  ,  What  does 
he  tell  you  ? — now  do  tell  me,  because  I  am  jealous,  you  know." 

But  Sybil  only  laughed,  and  shook  her  head. 

"Do  you  think  he  would  tell  me  any  thing?"  was  her  an- 
swer. 


sybil's  second  love.  225 

Miss  Cains  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  did  not  believe  her. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said,  a  little  dryly,  "  I  shall  find  out." 

"  Do,"  saucily  rejoined  Sybil ;  ''  and  then  you  Avill  tell  me 
all  about  it." 

Miss  Cains  looked  scarcely  pleased,  but  said  nothing.  The 
dinner-bell,  which  now  rang,  and  summoned  them  down-stairs, 
spared  them  the  trouble  of  further  conversation. 

"  Sybil  sat,  as  usual,  near  Mr.  Dermot,  and  Blanche  oppo- 
site her,  near  Mr.  Kennedy.  Was  it  the  consciousness  of  Miss 
Cains's  watchful  look,  or  the  remembrance  of  her  warning 
words,  that  rendered  Sybil  so  strange  and  cold  with  Mr.  Der- 
mot? He  perceived  the  change,  and  did  his  best  to  dispel  it; 
but  the  more  he  tried,  the  less  he  seemed  to  succeed.  When 
the  meal  was  over,  and  Sybil  rose  and  left  the  dining-room  last, 
Mr.  Dermot  rose  too,  and  whispered, 

"  Little  girl,  little  girl,  who  has  been  talking  to  you  ?" 

His  careless  tone,  something  rather  mocking  in  his  look,  did 
not  please  Sybil.  Besides,  Miss  Cains  turned  round,  and 
looked  at  them  and  smiled.     Sybil  colored,  and  said  dryly, 

"  Mr.  Dermot,  you  asked  me  for  civility — may  I  trouble 
you  for  some  ?  " 

A  flush  rose  to  his  face,  but  he  bowed  silently.  In  a  mo- 
ment, Sybil  felt,  as  she  looked  at  him,  that  he  was  offended. 
She  remembered  his  words  : 

"  I  am  touchy — if  you  care  for  me,  do  not  try  me  too  far." 

What  her  angry  and  vehement  reproaches  had  not  effected, 
this  little  bit  of  impertinence  had  done.  "Well,  and  what  do 
I  care  ?  "  rebelliously  thought  Sybil,  and  she  walked  out  without 
giving  him  a  look. 


-♦-»♦- 


CLTAPTER     XXX. 

Not  a  word  did  Miss  Glyn  utter  during  dinner-time,  and 
this  ominous  silence  she  carried  to  the  drawing-room,  and  pre- 
served the  whole  evening.  Miss  Glyn  was  meditating  over  the 
line  of  conduct  she  should  adopt  in  Avhat  she  mentally  called 
"  the  present  critical  circumstances."  Her  plan  was  not  fully 
matured  till  the  next  morning,  when  she  thought  fit  to  impart 
it  privately  to  Mr.  Kennedy.  It  was  this  much,  and  no  more  : 
10* 


226  sybil's  second  love. 

"  After  the  painful  position  in  which  her  ignorance  of  Mr.  Der- 
mot's  identity  had  placed  her,  Miss  Glyn  felt  bound  to  leave 
Saint  Vincent." 

"  I  cannot  remain  in  the  same  house  with  him  without 
apologizing,"  said  Miss  Glyn,  by  way  of  conclusion ;  "  and  I 
never  apologize,  it  is  a  matter  of  principle  with  me." 

In  vain  Mr.  Kennedy  assured  her  that  Mr.  Dermot  felt  no 
sort  of  resentment  against  her,  that  he  was  quite  willing  to  for- 
give her  unconscious  offence.  It  was  another  matter  of  prin- 
ciple with  Miss  Glyn  never  to  be  forgiven,  and  she  said  so.  # 

As  she  tempered  all  these  declarations  with  some  bittei 
comments  on  the  unpleasant  consequences  of  Mr.  Kennedy's 
want  of  frankness,  that  gentleman's  entreaties  that  she  would 
stay  waxed  rather  cooler,  and  it  was  with  the  faintest  show  of 
sorrow  that  he  heard  her  announce  her  approaching  departure. 
"  And  now,"  said  Miss  Glyn,  rising,  "  as  Sybil  cannot  stay 
here,  of  course  I  shall  take  her  with  me  to  England,  and  Miss 
Cains  can  accompany  us." 

"  Thanks  !  "  dryly  replied  Mr.  Kennedy.  "  I  wish  Sybil  to 
remain." 

"  Here,  Mr.  Kennedy,  with  that  Mr.  Dermot,  who  is  quite  a 
young  man,  and  not  her  uncle  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Mush  is  coming,"  calmly  said  Mr.  Kennedy. 
Miss  Glyn's  eyes  sparkled  on  hearing  her  cousin's  name. 
"  Were  there  twenty  Mrs.  Mushes  here,"  she  said,  indig- 
nantly, "  it  is  very  strange  to  keep  Mr.  Dermot  in  the  same 
house  with  two  girls  like  Sybil  and  Miss  Cains  !  " 

"  I  wish  neither  of  them  a  better  husband  ! "  replied  Mr. 
Kennedy,  smiling. 

Miss  Glyn  felt  very  angry,  but  as  she  would  have  found  it 
hard  to  say  about  what,  she  merely  uttered  an  ironical  "  In- 
deed, Mr.  Kennedy  ! "  and  at  once  left  the  room. 

"  I  see  through  it  all,"  wrathfully  thought  Miss  Glyn.  "  It 
is  very  hard  to  deceive  me.  James  wants  Mr.  Dermot,  who  is 
rich,  for  Sybil ;  and  Mr.  Dermot  does  not  care  about  Sybil  a 
rush,  and  is  always  staring  at  Miss  Cains,  who  has  been  angling 
for  him  ever  since  she  entered  this  house.  I  wonder  what  Mr. 
Kennedy  will  say  when  he  finds  that  out?" 

In  the  mean  time  Miss  Glyn  went  up  to  her  room,  and  nt 
once  commenced  packing.  After  five  minutes  thus  spent,  she 
interrupted  the  occupation  to  ring  the  bell,  and  send  a  message 
through  Dcniso,  after  which  she  became  intent  again.     She  was 


sybil's  second  love.  227 

deep  in  the  critical  operation  of  folding  a  velvet  dress — Miss 
Glyn  never  kept  a  maid,  "  on  principle  !  " — when  the  handle  of 
her  door  was  turned,  and  Miss  Cains  entered  the  room. 

"You  have  sent  for  me,  Miss  Glyn,"  said  that  young  lady, 
as  if  she  still  doubted  the  fact. 

"  I  have  taken  that  liberty,  Miss  Cains,"  replied  Miss  Glyn, 
with  a  smile,  which  meant  to  be  gracious.  "  I  am  going  to 
leave  this  house,  and  do  not  wish  to  do  so  without  having  a 
talk  with  you.     Pray  be  seated." 

Miss  Cains  looked  as  if  she  would  rather  stand,  but  she  com- 
plied, nevertheless,  with  the  elder  lady's  request,  and  cast  a  half- 
admiring,  half-careless  look  on  the  velvet  dress. 

"  What  a  pile  it  has  !  "  she  said.  "  If  ever  I  have  money 
to  spend,  I  shall  have  a  dress  like  that,  Miss  Glyn." 

Miss  Glyn  looked  stiff,  and  said,  "  Indeed  !  "  She  thought 
the  remark  a  highly  indecorous  one,  considering  Miss  Cains's 
position,  both  social  and  pecuniary. 

"  I  do  like  velvet !  "  continued  Blanche,  with  a  fond  intona- 
tion in  her  voice.  "  It  is  so  soft,  so  fur-like.  I  always  fancy 
it  is  the  skin  of  some  feline  beast  or  other — don't  you  ? " 

"No,"  rather  sharply  said  Miss  Glyn,  and  throwing  the 
dress  on  the  bed,  she  abruptly  changed  the  subject  of  conver- 
sation by  saying : 

"  You  know  I  am  going  ? " 

"  I  did  not  know  it,  Miss  Glyn,  but  from  these  signs  of 
packing  I  fear  you  are." 

"  I  am  going,  and  not  to  return — and  Mr.  Dermot  remains." 
Blanche  gently  bent  her  head,  and  as  she  sat  near  the  bed, 
extended  her  white  hand  to  feel  the  quality  of  the  fascinating 
velvet. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Cains,"  said  Miss  Glyn,  with  considerable 
asperity,  "  you  really  must  attend  to  me  ;  this  is  a  matter  that 
concerns  you  nearly." 

"  Oh  !  but  I  am  attending,"  said  Blanche,  very  sweetly. 
"  "Well,  as  I  said,  Mr.  Dermot  remains,  and  Mr.  Dermot  and 
Mr.  Kennedy  are  both  unmarried — allow  me  to  suggest  this 
house  is  no  home  for  you." 

Miss  Cains  looked  very  grave,  but  did  not  answer.  Miss 
Glyn  resumed : 

"  You  are  young  and  handsome  ;  you  are  poor,  too,  and 
your  fair  name  is  every  thing  to  you.  I  am  going  to  England, 
and  I  will  take  you  with  me,  and  place  yon  with  a  friend  of 


228  sybil's  second  love. 

mine,  who  will  be  glad  of  your  society  until  you  Lave  found 
such  a  situation  as  your  talents  and  accomplishments  cannot 
fail  to  secure." 

"  You  are  too  kind,"  said  Blanche. 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  accept  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  thank  you,  Miss  Glyn,"  replied  Miss  Cains  with 
much  urbanity.  "  I  am  twenty-five,  and  can  take  care  of  my- 
self. But  do  tell  me  where  you  got  that  velvet ;  I  shall  enjoy 
no  peace  of  mind  till  I  have  a  dress  like  it." 

"  That  will  do,  Miss  Cains,"  said  Miss  Glyn  angrily,  taking 
the  dress  away  and  tossing  it  on  a  chair  beyond  the  young 
lady's  reach,  "  that  will  do.  I  had  my  suspicions — they  are 
certainty  now — I  know  exactly  what  you  are  about." 

"  Then  you  know  more  than  I  do,  Miss,  Glyn,"  replied 
Blanche,  rather  scornfully  ;  "  however,  that  will  do,  as  you  say." 

She  rose,  bowed,  received  a  stiff  nod  in  return,  and  left  the 
room.  She  went  up  at  once  to  her  own  apartment,  opened  the 
chest  of  drawers  with  which  it  was  furnished,  emptied  it  of  its 
contents,  and  deliberately  began  packing  up  her  trunk.  She 
had  not  long  been  thus  engaged,  when  Sybil  came  in  upon  her. 
She  remained  amazed  and  mute  on  seeing;  the  bed  covered  with 
the  various  articles  of  Miss  Cains's  wardrobe. 

"  Blanche,  what  does  it  mean  ?  "  she  asked  at  length. 

"  I  am  going  away,"  coolly  replied  Blanche.  "  Miss  Glyn, 
who  is  leaving,  has  just  pointed  out  the  impropriety  of  my 
remaining  in  this  house,  when  you,  a  mere  child,  are  at  the 
head  of  it ;  and  though  I  would  not  confess  she  was  right,  she 
is  right,  and  I  am  leaving  Saint  Vincent,  which,  if  I  had  not 
been  so  thoughtless,  I  should  never  have  entered." 

Sybil  changed  color,  then  said  sharply, 

"You  shall' not  go!" 

"  Oh  !  but  I  must — your  aunt  has  just  informed  me  that  I 
had  designs  upon  Mr.  Dermot.     Designs  upon  him,  Sybil ! " 

Miss  Cains  looked  magnificent  in  her  scorn  of  this  imputa- 
tion, which  utterly  confounded  Sybil. 

"  And  so  it  is  on  his  account  you  leave  ! "  she  cried  half 
*gnly.     "  He  sends  aunt  away,  and  you — Blanche,   he  will 
make  me  detest  him  !     Why  does  he  not  go  ?  " 

"  I  suppose,  poor  wretch  !  because  he  has  got  into  good  quar- 
ters," disdainfully  replied  Miss  Cains.  "Well,  I  am  poor  my- 
self, and  I  will  not  throw  his  poverty  in  his  face — only  stay  here 
I  cannot." 


SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOVE.  229 

She  knelt  on  the  floor  and  resinned  her  packing. 

"  Now,  Blanche,  that  is  nonsense,"  coolly  replied  Sybil ;  "  I 
will  not  let  you  go." 

Miss  Cains  looked  up. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will." 

"  We  shall  see  that,"  cried  Sybil,  darting  out  of  the  room. 

She  ran  down-stairs  to  seek  her  father.  In  her  eagerness  to 
make  him  keep  her  friend,  she  forgot  that  Miss  Glyn  was  leav- 
ing ;  but  as  she  passed  by  that  lady's  door,  a  sharp  call  of 
"  Sybil !  "  suddenly  checked  her  progress,  and  reminded  her  of 
the  fact.  She  entered  the  room,  and  saw  Miss  Glyn  standing 
in  the  midst  of  her  trunks,  with  the  look  of  a  commander-in- 
chief  on  a  field-day. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  ruefully  cried  Sybil,  "  every  one  is  packing  up." 

"  Who  else  is  going  ? "  asked  Miss  Glyn. 

"  Blanche  says  she  must  go,  after  what  you  have  said.  Oh  ! 
aunt,  do  stay — do,  pray,  do  ! " 

Miss  Glyn  had  called  in  Sybil  for  the  express  purpose  of 
telling  her  that  Miss  Cains  was  one  of  the  most  imprudent  young 
ladies  she  had  ever  met  with,  but  the  announcement  of  the  sin- 
ner's approaching  departure  silenced  her.  She  tightened  uj)  her 
lips,  and  bridled  up,  and  looked  much,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Do  stay  ! "  again  entreated  Sybil ;  "  do,  pray,  do  ! " 

"  Not  with  Mr.  Dermot  in  the  house,"  was  the  stern  reply. 

"  Then  I  detest  Mr.  Dei-mot !  "  cried  Sybil,  with  angry 
tears—"  I  detest  him  !  " 

"  You  would  not  have  a  penny  but  for  him,"  coldly  replied 
Miss  Glyn.  "  Mr.  Dermot  has  been  your  father's  best  friend, 
and  I  sincerely  lament  his  approaching  fate." 

"  Fate  ! — what  fate  ?  "  asked  Sybil,  changing  color. 

"  Ask  Miss  Cains." 

"  Oh  !  aunt,"  cried  Sybil,  reddening,  "  how  can  you  say  so  ? 
— she  hates  him." 

"  You  are  the  simplest  child;  she  hates  him,  does  she  ? — and 
all  she  wants  is  to  be  Mrs.  Dermot.  She  has  been  setting  her 
cap  at  him  all  along,  as  she  set  it  at  the  count — as  she  will  set  it 
at  every  man  who  comes  to  this  house — you  will  never  have  a 
chance  while  she  is  byr,  Sybil." 

"  You  do  not  suppose,  aunt,  I  want  that  chance  from  her  '.  " 
indignantly  asked  Sybil. 

"  So  much  the  better  for  you,  my  dear,  for  you  would  not 
get  it." 


230  sybil's  second  love. 

Sybil  wanted  to  answer  this,  but  Miss  Glyn  said  that  she  w;is 
very  busy,  and  would  rather  that  she  would  go.  Sybil  left  her, 
still  flushed  and  indignant.  It  was  not  true ;  she  did  not  be 
lieve  it.  It  was  not  true,  for  he  did  not  like  Blanche,  and  on 
Blanche  herself  it  was  a  cruel  slander.  And  Blanche  should  not 
go ;  she  would  tell  her  father  so,  and  he  would  keep  her.  She 
entered  Mr.  Kennedy's  study — a  quiet  room  near  the  library — 
without  knocking,  and  abruptly  exclaimed : 

"Papa,  you  will  not  let  Blanche  go,  will  you?  " 

Mr.  Dermot,  and  not  Mr.  Kennedy,  emerged  from  behind  the 
window-curtain.  He  had  been  standing  there  reading  a  letter, 
with  his  back  to  Sybil,  who  had  not  seen  him. 

"  Mr.  Kennedy  is  out,"  he  said — "  can  I  do  any  thing  for 
you,  Miss  Kennedy  ? " 

The  request  put  Sybil  into  a  rage. 

"  No,  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said  sharply ;  "  I  came  to  ask  my 
father  to  undo  your  work — you  cannot  assist  me." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  smile ;  "  my  work, 
as  you  call  it,  can  best  be  undone  by  me.  I  confess  I  do  not 
know  what  work  you  mean,  but  I  do  know  I  am  willing  to 
oblige  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  replied  Sybil,  "  but  you  will  allow  me 
to  doubt  that  you  can  keep  Aunt  Glyn  and  Miss  Cains,  when 
both  are  determined  to  leave  on  your  account." 

"On  my  account! — I  was  not  aware  I  had  affronted  Miss 
Cains  too.  Miss  Glyn,  I  confess,  I  cannot  hope  to  detain,  but  I 
may  succeed  with  your  friend." 

"  I  suppose  your  influence  over  her  is  greater  than  mine  ? " 
said  Sybil,  her  eyes  sparkling. 

"  I  never  meant  that." 

"  Then  what  did  you  mean  ? " 

"  The  end  will  show." 

"I  know,"  said  Sybil,  turning  crimson — "you  have  more 
power  with  papa  than  I  have.  I  know  it,  Mr.  Dermot — I  have 
seen  it  before  to-day." 

"  It  would  be  very  strange  indeed  if  you  had  not  seen  that," 
he  composedly  answered ;  "  but  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  in  a 
very  good  temper,  so  I  shall  not  trouble  you  any  more  with 
proffers  of  service." 

"  He  left  the  room  ;  his  look,  his  tone  had  not  varied  ;  both 
had  preserved  their  coolness  and  composure.  Sybil  felt  exas- 
perated.    She  flung  herself  across  the  table,  and  cried  bitterly. 


L':;i 


SYBIL  S   SECOND   LOVE. 

"  Why,  Pussy,  what  is  the  matter?  "  said  her  father's  voice. 

She  looted  up,  her  face  all  flushed. 

"  I  am  wretched !  "  vehemently  said  Sybil,  "  and  Mr.  Der- 
mot is  the  cause  of  it  all,  and  only  puts  on  his  grand,  composed 
ways  to  vex  me,  and  make  me  miserable;  and  I  shall  not  be 
happy  whilst  he  remains  in  the  house  !  "  passionately  added  Sybil. 

"  Then,  my  dear,  you  are  not  likely  to  be  happy  just  yet," 
very  coolly  said  her  father. 

Indignation  kept  Sybil  silent. 

"  Come,  Pussy,  let  us  talk  sense  for  once,"  said  Mr.  Kenned}^, 
sitting  down,  and  drawing  her  on  his  knee.  "  Do  you  know 
who  this  hateful  Dermot  is  ? — why,  he  is  simply  one  of  the  best, 
noblest,  and  grandest  fellows  that  ever  lived.  There  is  more 
than  flesh  and  blood  between  us,  Sybil — ay,  ten  times  more. 
He  helped  me  to  marry  his  sister,  and  by  so  doing  brought  on 
himself  a  bitter  persecution.  He  bore  blows,  threats,  and  con- 
tumely for  my  sake,  and  was  turned  adrift  at  sixteen,  and  I  was 
the  cause,  Sybil.  Well,  I  have  paid  that  debt.  I  was  often 
short  of  money — often  weighed  down  with  cares — but  he  never 
suffered — never,  and  he  knows  it.  Since  he  has  been  a  man,  wc 
have  been  fast  friends,  and  you  may  judge  what  chance  there  is 
of  your  being  made  happy  by  his  removal  from  the  house." 

"Yes,"  replied  Sybil  jealously,  "and  that  is  the  worst  of  all; 
you  love  him  more  than  you  love  me.  I  thought  I  was  every 
thing  since  I  came  from  school,  and  I  now  see  I  have  a  rival ; 
and  how  can  I  like  Mr.  Dermot,  since  he  sends  aunt,  and  even 
Blanche,  away  ? " 

"Oh!  but  Miss  Cains  must  not  go,"  hastily  said  Mr,  Ken- 
nedy; "she  must  stay  and  chaperone  you,  Pussy." 

"  She  wants  some  one  to  chaperone  her,  and  will  go  to-mor- 
row, she  says." 

"  Tell  her  that  she  must  not  go,  and  that  Mrs.  Mush  is  com- 
ing.    Or  stay,  I  shall  tell  her  so  myself." 

"  I  shall  go  and  fetch  her!  "  cried  Sybil,  all  eagerness. 

She  ran  out  of  the  study,  and  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
Mr.  Dermot.  In  her  joy  she  would  not  have  minded  making  it 
up  with  him,  but  Mr.  Dermot  was  probably  wearied  of  her  ca- 
prices, for  he  made  room  for  her  to  pass  with  a  cold  look,  that 
promised  Sybil  eternal  indifference. 

"  What  do  I  care  ?  "  she  thought  going  upstairs.  "  J  >■  <  S 
he  fancy,  perhaps,  that  I  care  about  him  '.  indeed,  I  will  show 
him  I  do  not — yes,  I  will  show  him,  and  every  one  else  too  !  " 


232  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Blanche,  Blanche,"  she  cried  gayly,  as  she  entered  the 
room  where  Miss  Cains  sat  resting  after  her  packing,  "  empty 
your  trunk — you  are  not  going.  Papa  says  you  must  not — Mrs. 
Mush  is  coming.     Come  down  and  hear  him  say  so." 

Miss  Cains  wanted  to  resist,  but  Sybil  took  her  hand  and. 
compelled  her  down-stairs. 

"  Miss  Cains,"  kindly  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  when  the  two  girls 
entered  the  study,  "you  cannot  leave  us — you  must  not  go.  I 
understand  and  appreciate  your  motives ;  but  Sybil  cannot 
afford  to  lose  her  friend.  My  cousin,  Mrs.  Mush,  has  promised 
to  come  in  a  day  or  two.  T  trust  her  presence  in  the  house  will 
remove  all  your  scruples.  Allow  me  to  add,  that  by  remaining 
you  will  be  conferring  the  greatest  favor  upon  me." 
Blanche  colored  and  hesitated. 

"  Oh  !  Blanche,"  entreated  Sybil,  clinging  to  her,  "  stay,  do 
stay,  if  you  love  me.     Do,  my  darling." 

Still  Miss  Cains  hesitated.  But  Sybil's  entreaties  grew  more 
and  more  fervent.  Mr.  Kennedy  threw  in  a  few  earnest  and 
cordial  words,  and  reluctantly,  like  one  who  yields  against  her 
better  judgment,  Miss  Cains  gave  way. 

"  It  is  for  your  .sake,  darling,"  she  whispered,  returning  Sybil's 
fond  embrace. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  gayly  said  Sybil. 

"  And  so  tbi  3  matter  is  settled,  and  all  right,  is  it?"  said 
Mr.  Kennedy  with  evident  satisfaction. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  and  I  am  so  happy,"  cried  Sybil  with  sparkling 
eyes. 

Blanche  smiled,  and  softly  smoothed  Sybil's  dark  hair;  and 
Mr.  Kennedy  thought  he  had  seldom  seen  a  prettier  group  than 
that  before  him,  when  an  unwelcome  intrusion  disturbed  this 
pleasant  contemplation.  The  door  opened,  and  Miss  Glyn  en- 
tered the  room  fully  equipped  for  her  journey. 

"  I  have  come  to  bid  you  good-by,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said 
rather  grandly ;  "  for  there  is  no  reason,  of  course,  why  we 
should  not  part  friends." 

"  None  indeed,  my  dear  Miss  Glyn,"  he  said,  kindly  going 
u£  to  her ;  "  I  only  regret  you  think  it  necessary  we  should 
part  at  all." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Kennedy,  you  know  I  would  not  stay  here,  and  all 
that  amazes  me  is  that  you  will  keep  Mr.  Dermot,  having  as 
you  have  a  daughter  of  Sybil's  age,  and  knowing  as  you  know 
what  the  world  will  say.     Miss  Cains,"  she  added,  with  an  ap- 


SYBIL  S  SECOND  LOVE.  233 

proving  glance  toward  that  young  lady,  "  has  shown  her  sense  of 
the  state  of  things  by  resolving  to  leave  the  house." 

"  Miss  Cains  is  staying,"  coolly  said  Mr.  Kennedy.  "  I  am 
happy  to  say  that  she  has  yielded  to  my  request,  seconded  by 
Pussy's  entreaties. 

"  Miss  Cains  is  staying !  "  echoed  Miss  Glyn  in  a  hollow 
voice — "  then  I  was  not  mistaken  after  all ;  "  and  she  added 
\\  ith  a  contemptuous  look  at  her  niece,  "  Sybil,  you  are  a  fool !  " 

Sybil  reddened,  and  Mr.  Kennedy  looked  angry. 

"  Miss  Glyn,  explain  yourself,"  he  said. 

"  No,  no,"  returned  that  lady  with  a  sagacious  nod,  "  I  know 
rny  own  meaning,  and  am  satisfied  with  it.  Good-afternoon, 
Mr.  Kennedy ;  good-afternoon,  Miss  Cains ;  good-afternoon, 
Sybil.  I  congratulate  you  all  on  your  wisdom — thank  Heaven, 
I  am  out  of  it !  " 

With  which  enigmatic  words,  Miss  Glyn  walked  out  of  the 
room,  followed  by  Sybil  only.  Mr.  Kennedy  probably  was  too 
much  affronted  to  pay  his  sister-in-law  that  last  courtesy.  Miss 
Glyn  took  no  notice  of  Sybil  till  they  both  stood  on  the  thresh- 
old of  the  abbey  gates.  She  then  turned  round  to  her,  and  said 
calmly, 

"  Sybil,  you  have  chosen  to  be  wise,  and  you  will  pay  the 
penalty.  You  acted  against  my  advice  all  along ;  you  have 
already  suffered,  and  you  will  suffer  still  more.  That  girl  is  a 
serpent,  and  her  name  should  be  Cain,  not  Cains.  But  for  her 
you  would  be  Count  Andre  de  Renneville's  wife.  She  is  a  ser- 
pent, and  you  will  find  it  out  later.  Never  hope  to  marry 
whilst  she  is  here.  I  might  say  more,  but  where  would  be  the 
use  ?  The  mischief  is  done,  and  past  your  mending.  I  am 
going,  but  I  shall  soon  return  to  this  neighborhood ;  and  you 
can  always  come  to  me,  Sybil,  if  you  need  it.  There,  good-by, 
child  ;  give  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Dermot,  and  tell  him  he  has 
acted  like  a  gentleman." 

Miss  Glyn  gave  Sybil  a  cold  embrace,  entered  the  carriage 
which  was  waiting,  and  drove  away  from  her  brother-in-law's 
house,  to  enter  it  no  more. 

Anger,  indignation,  surprise,  had  kept  Sybil  mute  whilst 
her  aunt  was  speaking ;  but  she  saw  her  go  with  a  sense  of  re- 
lief. It  was  more  than  the  young  girl  could  bear  patiently  to  be 
told  to  mistrust  her  dearest  friend,  and  to  hear  her  coolly  called 
a  serpent. 

Unfortunately,   she  had  not  been  the  only  one  to  hear  Miss 


234  sybil's  second  love. 

Glyrt's  parting  speech.  When  she  turned  back  from  the  gates 
she  saw  Blanche  standing  behind  her,  pale  as  death,  but  with 
flaming  eyes.  Sybil  threw  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her 
friend. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it !  "  she  cried.  "  I  love  you  !  I  trust  you 
entirely.     I  do  not  believe  it !  " 

"  AVhat  a  sin  it  is  to  be  poor ! "  moodily  said  Miss  Cains, 
scarcely  heeding  Sybil's  caresses ;  "  that  is  my  crime,  you  see. 
I  am  poor,  and  therefore  suspected  of  every  baseness.  Sybil,  as  I 
live,  I  never  wished  for  the  count." 

"  I  know  it ! — I  know  it !  "  said  Sybil,  leading  her  up  to 
the  drawing-room.  "I  know  it,  and  I  trust  you  entirely. 
I  love  you  too  well,  Blanche,  to  doubt  you  ! " 

The  large  room  was  vacant.  Blanche  sank*  down  on  a  chair 
near  the  fire,  and  Sybil,  kneeling  on  the  carpet  at  her  feet, 
looked  up  fondly  in  the  face  of  her  friend,  It  was  flushed  now, 
and  tears  shone  in  Blanche  Cains's  blue  eyes, 

"  Sybil,"  she  said,  "  I  never  shall  be  unkind  to  you — never  ! 
— never !  " 

"  Unkind  !  "  laughed  Sybil;  "  don't  I  know  it  ?  " 

Her  look  as  she  glanced  upward  was  the  very  sublime  of 
faith.  It  was  full,  too,  very  full,  of  affection.  You  will  be  loved, 
Blanche  Cains,  and  by  an  adoring  husband,  ere  your  tale  is 
done;  but  never  will  there  be,  in  a  human  heart,  the  trust  and 
love  for  you  which  now  burn  in  the  heart  of  that  fond,  kneeling 
girl. 


-♦-»♦-- 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

A  long,  languid  calm  followed  the  agitation  which  had  pre- 
ceded and  caused  Miss  Glyn's  departure  from  Saint  Vincent. 
Mrs.  Mush,  who  was  to  come  in  a  few  days,  did  not  appear;  and 
though  Mr.  Kennedy  said  not  one  word  on  this  subject,  Miss 
Cains,  to  Sybil's  great  relief,  never  talked  of  the  impropriety  of 
remaining,  nor  packed  up  -her  trunk  to  go. 

So  weeks  sped  by  in  the  dulness  and  retirement  of  a  secluded 
country  life ;  for  Sybil  had  ceased  going  out,  and  few  visitors 
crossed  the  threshold  of  Saint  Vincent  since  Miss  Glyn  was  no 
longer  there  to  receive  them.  Indeed,  that  lady's  departure, 
and  the  long  \  isit  of  Miss  Cains,  were  variously  commented 


Sybil's  second  love.  235 

upon  by  the  little  world  -which  met  to  drink  tea  and  talk  scanda) 
at  Mrs.  Ronald's. 

Some  of  these  comments  were  repeated  to  Mr.  Kennedy ; 
but  he  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  repeat  them  again,  and  no 
one  in  the  Abbey  knew  a  word  of  them.  Matters  went  on 
pretty  smoothly  in  that  quiet  dwelling,  and,  save  in  one  respect, 
entirely  to  Mr.  Kennedy's  satisfaction.  Neither  coaxing,  nor 
entreaties,  nor  commands,  could  induce  Sybil  to  make  up  her 
long  and  obstinate  quarrel  with  Mr.  Dermot. 

"He  had  offended  her,"  she  said,  "and  it  was  impossible 
she  should  go  and  beg  his  pardon." 

So  she  wrapped  herself  in  her  dignity,  as  in  a  mantle,  and 
kept  aloof.  If  by  this  haughty  bearing  Sybil  thought  to  induce 
Mr.  Dermot  to  sue  again  for  her  lost  favor,  she  was  disappointed. 
Mr.  Kennedy,  indeed,  tried  to  induce  him  to  go  once  more 
"  and  make  it  up  with  Pussy,"  but  Mr.  Dermot  flatly  refused  to 
do  so.  If  Sybil  chose  to  be  offended  with  him,  Mr.  Dermot 
was  plainly  offended  with  her.  Worse  still,  that  fondness  and 
affection  he  had  so  long  shown  seemed  to  have  left  no  traces  of 
their  being  behind.  Mr.  Kennedy  was  vexed,  and  he  showed 
his  displeasure  to  Sybil. 

"You  have  affronted  Mr.  Dermot,"  he  said  sharply  ;  "  you 
have  lost  his  friendship  and  his  regard  by  your  absurd  affecta- 
tion of  dignity.     I  am  very  angry,  Sybil." 

Sybil  reddened,  and  was  amazed  at  so  harsh  a  reproof.  She 
liked  Mr.  Dermot  none  the  better  for  it.  What  was  he,  that  he 
turned  her  father  against  her,  and  changed  Mr.  Kennedy's  in- 
dulgent admiration  of  all  her  little  caprices  into  censure  so  severe  ? 
If  he  thought  to  conquer  her  by  that,  she  would  show  him  be 
was  mistaken.  Accordingly,  Sybil  infused  a  double  amount  of 
coldness  in  her  bearing  toward  Mr.  Dermot.  But  Mr.  Dermot 
looked,  as  he  felt,  no  doubt,  profoundly  indifferent.  He  was 
thirty,  a  man  of  the  world,  a  friend,  and  not  a  lover.  What 
were  Sybil's  frowns  to  him  ?  He  could  live  without  the  sun- 
shine of  her  smiles,  and  sleep  none  the  worse  because  he  had 
forfeited  her  good  graces.  Miss  Cains  watched  all  this  with  a 
keen,  attentive  look,  but  said  very  little  to  Sybil.  That  little 
Sybil  answered  with  some  asperity.  "What  did  she  care  about 
Mr.  Dermot,  or  his  grand  ways?  She  knew  he  put  them  on  to 
vex  her;  but  he  was  sadly  mistaken  if  he  thought  she  cared  a 
pin.     Not  she ;  and  he  must  be  blind  not  to  see  it." 

Mr.  Dermot,  and,  indeed,  every  one  in  Saint  Vincent,  must 


236  sybil's  second  love. 

have  been  blind  not  to  see  that  Sybil  was  very  lively.  Sbe 
sang  from  morning  till  night,  she  was  restlessly  busy,  she 
laughed  about  every  thing,  and  she  had  never  been  in  higher 
spirits.  But  Sybil's  gayety  no  more  moved  Mr.  Dermot  than 
her  previous  gravity ;  and  when  she  suddenly  relapsed  into  a 
silent  and  rather  languid  mood,  he  was  the  same  as  ever — strictly 
civil,  and  no  more.  Matters  stood  thus,  when  Sybil  found  her- 
self alone  with  him  in  the  drawing-room  one  afternoon.  Spring 
was  late  that  year,  and  the  day  was  dull  and  gray  ;  Sybil  sat, 
for  the  light,  near  one  window,  and  Mr.  Dermot,  for  the  same 
purpose,  near  another.  She  sewed,  and  he  read.  She  let  her 
work  drop  upon  her  lap,  and  looted  up  at  him.  Something  in 
his  newspaper  called  up  a  smile  on  his  face.  Sybil  knew  that 
smile  well.  It  was  genial  and  pleasant;  a  smile  which  shone 
back  in  his  eyes,  and  gave  them  a  warm  lustre.  "I  wish  we 
were  friends  again,"  thought  Sybil ;  "  I  know  he  likes  me  as  I 
like  him.  I  wonder  what  he  would  say  if  I  were  to  talk  to  him 
now  ? "     The  temptation  was  strong,  and  Sybil  yielded  to  it. 

"  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Dermot  looked  up  from  his  paper,  but  did  not  put  it 
down.  Sybil's  heart  failed  her  a  little,  but  she  took  courage, 
and  continued : 

"  I  have  been  very  remiss." 

"  Pray,  how  so  ? " 

"  Aunt  gave  me  a  message  for  you,  and  I  never  delivered  it." 

Mr.  Dermot  waited  in  silence.     She  resumed: 

"  My  aunt  desired  me  to  give  her  compliments  to  you,  and 
tell  you  that  you  behaved  like  a  gentleman." 

Mr.  Dermot  smiled  coldly ;  but  all  he  said  was : 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you;"  with  which  he  took  up 
his  paper  once  more. 

Sybil's  heart  was  very  full.  So  this  was  how  he  received 
her  little  advances — with  that  freezing  coldness.  After  that, 
how  could  she  address  him  again  ?  "  1  cannot,  and  I  will  not," 
thought  Sybil.  "  Never  more  will  I  open  my  lips  to  him. 
Blanche,  whom  he  pretends  to  dislike,  he  would  not  have  dared 
to  treat  so."  She  could  have  shed  tears  of  mortification,  and 
longed  to  be  out  of  the  room,  far  from  his  presence.  She  had 
no  need  to  wish  so  long,  for  after  a  few  minutes  had  passed,  Mr. 
Dermot  put  down  his  paper  and  left  the  drawiug-room. 

They  did  not  meet  again  till  dinner,  and  then  his  manner 
was  just  as  polite  and  as  distant  as  ever.      Mr.  Dermot  treated 


sybil's  second  love.  237 

Sybil  with  the  greatest  courtesy,  and  did  not  bestow  upon  her 
one  unnecessary  word.  The  chief  part  of  his  conversation,  in- 
deed, was  directed  to  Mr.  Kennedy,  and  referred  to  business 
matters. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  Quebec  Johnsons  ?  "  he  asked, 
rather  abruptly,  as  the  meal  drew  to  a  close. 

"  Not  much  good,"  replied  Mr.  Kennedy,  with  a  peculiar 
smile.     "  What  do  you  think  of  them  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Dermot's  lip  curled,  and  there  was  a  light  in  his  eye 
that  said  much,  but  other  reply  he  did  not  give ;  and  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy forbore  to  press  the  question. 

"Who  are  these  Quebec  Johnsons?"  asked  Blanche  of 
Sybil,  when  they  sat  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  before  the  gen- 
tlemen joined  them. 

"  I  don't  know,"  languidly  replied  Sybil ;  "  some  of  papa's 
correspondents,  I  believe." 

"  Greeneyes  does  not  like  them.     Eh  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  about  him,  or  his  likes  and  his  dislikes,"  tartly 
said  Sybil. 

Blanche  laughed,  and  resumed  : 

"  You  remember  that  pink-eyed  Anna,  from  Canada  ?  She 
was  a  Johnson,  was  she  not  ?" 

"  No  ;  her  name  was  Smithson." 

"  So  it  was.  I  wonder  what  put  Johnson  into  my  head, 
then  ? " 

Sybil  did  not  answer  ;  she  felt  in  no  mood  for  speech,  grave 
or  trivial.  Silence  was  sweet  to  her  just  then,  for  it  seemed  to 
lull  the  secret  sting  she  could  not  get  rid  of.  Blanche  did  not 
tease  her  with  talk,  but  stretched  herself  in  an  easy-chair,  and 
looked  at  the  blazing  fire  in  happy  indolence.  The  entrance  of 
Mr.  Kennedy  and  Mr.  Dermot  did  not  make  her  change  her 
attitude. 

"  She  is  wonderfully  handsome  !  "  thought  Sybil,  looking  at 
her,  and  detecting  the  looks  which  the  two  gentlemen  cast  upon 
her  as  they  both  took  their  places,  "  and  no  wonder  that  both 
papa  and  he  should  see  it.  I  shall  never  be  admired  as  Blanche 
is — never  !  " 

"  Miss  Cains,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  "  it  is  a  mortal  sin  to  dis- 
turb you,  you  seem  so  happy  ;  but,  for  all  that,  will  you  have  a 
game  of  chess  ?  " 

Mr.  Kennedy  was  fond  of  chess,  and  now  and  then  he  thu9 
challenged  Miss  Cains  of  an  evening.  As  a  rule,  she  took  up 
the  glove,  but  now  she  demurred. 


238  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Must  I  ? "  she  said  reluctantly.  "  Why  do  you  not  ask 
Sybil,  Mr.  Kennedy?" 

"Sybil  hates  chess." 

"  Well,  then,  ask  Mr.  Derrnot.  He  is  a  fine  chess-player,  I 
know." 

Mr.  Kennedy  looked  in  some  surprise  at  Mr.  Dermot,  who 
smiled,  evidently  not  in  denial.  Then  Mr.  Kennedy  said  a  little 
gravely, 

'k  And  pray,  Miss  Cains,  how  do  you  know — I  confess  I  did 
not — that  Mr.  Dermot  possesses  this  accomplishment?" 

"  Because  he  told  me  so.  I  always  believe  people  when 
they  praise  themselves." 

Mr.  Kennedy  laughed. 

"  Professional  jealousy,"  he  said.  "  I  know  you  are  a  very 
fine  chess-player,  Miss  Cains,  and  I  shall  put  Mr.  Dermot  to  the 
test.  Dermot,  come  and  play  a  game  with  Miss  Cains,  whilst 
I  look  on  and  act  as  umpire." 

"  With  great  pleasure,"  replied  Mr.  Dermot,  rising  and 
bringing  forth  the  little  chess-table,  which  he  placed  before 
Miss  Cains.  She  laughed  and  shook  her  head,  and  looked  very 
becomingly  lazy,  but  for  all  that  she  yielded,  and  sat  up,  and 
the  game  began.  The  two  antagonists  had  not  proceeded  be- 
yond the  first  two  or  three  moves,  before  a  letter  was  brought 
in  to  Mr.  Kennedy.  He  walked  away  to  read  it,  and  instead  of 
returning  to  the  chess-table,  fell  in  a  brown  study  by  the  fire. 
Sybil  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  reading,  but  ere  long 
her  book  fell  on  her  lap.  She  felt  troubled,  and  she  would  have 
found  it  hard  to  say  why  she  felt  so  ;  but  the  quiet  current  of 
her  former  life  seemed  gone  forever,  and  that  pleasant  stream 
now  flowed  in  restless  waves.     Why  was  it  so?  . 

Oh !  how  long  ago  seemed  the  days  when  Sybil  was  light- 
hearted.  Even  her  first  grief — Count  de  Renneville's  treachery 
— now  wore  a  remote  look.  When  Sybil  thought  of  that  time, 
she  asked  herself  if  she  had  ever  loved  him  !  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  liking  for  him  was  essentially  subordinate  to  his  exist- 
ence as  a  being  of  romance.  Take  that  halo  from  him,  and  her 
worship  died  out,  like  a  spent  fire,  leaving  naught  save  cold 
ashes  behind.  She  still  smarted  from  the  sense  of  his  betrayal, 
but  that  was  wounded  faith,  not  wounded  love.  Her  daily 
quarrel  with  Mr.  Dermot  had  scattered  the  last  vestiges  of  that 
regret,  as  the  first  gale  of  winter  scatters  autumn  leaves. 

"  I  have  lived  an  age  since  the  count  went,"  thought  Sybil. 


sybil's  second  love.  239 

And  so  she  had.  She  had  learned  that  trouble  and  untruth 
can  take  more  than  one  aspect.  She  did  her  best  not  to  blame 
her  father  in  her  thoughts,  but  she  felt  that,  by  introducing  Mr. 
Dermot  as  his  brother,  he  had  wronged  his  child.  He  had 
taught  her  that  deceit  can  sit  by  the  domestic  hearth — a  cruel 
lesson,  which  should  ever  be  spared  the  young.  And  that  Mr. 
Dermot,  how  he  had  played  his  part,  how  he  had  cheated  her 
out  of  her  affection  and  confidence,  caring  nothing  for  either  all 
the  time.  And  Sybil  remembered  how  she  had  cried  on  his 
shoulder,  how  her  heart  had  beat  as  she  held  bis  letter  in  her 
hand,  and  thought,  "  This  is  the  letter  ofaa  friend."  It  was 
bitter,  very  bitter.  But  who  had  spared  her  ?  Miss  Glyn  had 
stung  her  to  the  very  heart,  and  gone,  leaving  the  arrow  in  the 
wound.  Sybil  was  not  jealous,  or  envious,  but  she  could  not 
forget — what  woman  could  ? — that  her  lover  had  preferred  her 
friend  to  her.  Was  Miss  Glyn's  prophecy  to  be  fulfilled,  and 
was  Blanche  ever  to  become  her  involuntary  rival  ?  That  would 
be  hard.  She  looked  at  her.  Miss  Cains  was  leaning  back  in 
her  chair,  her  hand  uplifted,  and  staying  so  in  the  act  of  making 
a  decisive  move.  Mr.  Dermot,  bending  forward,  his  arms  folded 
on  the  table,  looked  intently  at  his  fair  enemy's  face.  A  sud- 
den suspicion  flashed  across  Sybil's  mind.  What  proof  had 
she  that  Blanche's  dislike  was  returned  ?  Suppose  he  admired 
and  loved  her  ? 

There  had  been  a  time  when  such  a  thought  would  have 
filled  Sybil's  heart  with  gladness — when  she  would  have  re- 
joiced to  think  that  her  uncle  and  her  friend  should  unite  in 
love  and  life,  but  now  that  thought  was  odious.  He  had  taken 
so  large  a  share  of  her  father's  affections,  that  she  disliked  him 
as  much  for  that  as  for  his  other  misdeeds,  but  that  he  should 
even  attempt  to  take  her  friend,  or  think  of  it,  was  not  to  be 
endured. 

She  rose  up  and  went  up  to  them,  resolved  to  disturb  his 
contemplation,  pleasing  though  he  found  it ;  but  Mr.  Dermot's 
eyes  never  moved,  and  yet  he  must  have  heard,  if  he  had  not 
seen  her.  It  was  all  his  insolence,  his  hateful,  odious  insolence. 
She  stood  by  the  table,  a  small  square  one,  scarcely  larger  than 
the  chessboard  that  rested  upon  it.  An  impulse,  an  irresistible 
impulse,  and  certainly  neither  a  wise  nor  a  right  one,  made 
Sybil  walk  deliberately  on  as  if  nothing  stood  in  her  way.  With 
a  crash  the  table  capsized,  the  chessmen  flew  about  the  room, 
and  Sybil  herself  would  have  stumbled,  and  perhaps  fallen,  if 
Mr.  Dermot  had  not  caught  her  in  his  arms. 


240  stbil's  second  love. 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  she  said,  struggling  like  a  wild  thing.  "Let 
me  go !  " 

But  he  did  not  let  her  go,  for  he  was  seriously  alarmed, 
Sybil  was  pale  as  death,  and  trembled  in  every  limb.  All  his 
old  tenderness  seemed  to  come  back. 

"  Hush,  my  darling  ! "  he  said,  softly,  "  hush  !  What  ails 
you  ?  Why,  you  were  walking  straight  into  the  fire,  and  with 
that  thin  dress,  too.     I  will  not  let  you  go,  so  sit  down  here." 

Sybil  yielded,  and  sat  down,  but  she  kept  her  eyes  bent. 
Her  father  and  Miss  Cains  stood  near  her  and  addressed  her, 
but  she  did  not  answer  one  word. 

"  What  was  it  ? "  anxiously  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  looking  at 
Mr.  Dermot. 

Mr.  Dermot  shuddered  as  he  replied  : 

"  She  did  not  see  the  table,  and  was  walking  into  the  fire." 

"  You  look  as  bad  as  she  does,  Ned  !  " 

"I  saw  a  lady  burned  to  death  last  year,  and  one  does  not 
foro-et  such  sights. — "  Come,  Sybil,  there  is  no  danger ;  look  up, 
it  is  all  right,  is  it  not  ?" 

He  stooped  and  looked  into  her  face. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  it  is  all  right,"  said  Sybil,  with  a  little  shiver ; 
"  but  I  feel  very  ill ! — very  ill !  " 

"  But  her  dress  is  on  fire,"  cried  Mr.  Kennedy.  "  I  smell  it 
burning." 

'•  No,  it  is  not,  I  put  my  foot  upon  it  at  once." 

It  was  Mr.  Dermot  who  spoke. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  go  up-stairs,"  said  Sybil,  nervously. 

"  I  shall  go  with  you,  dear,"  said  Miss  Cains. 

"  No — no,  pray  do  not,"  replied  .Sybil,  with  something  like 
eagerness. 

"  Miss  Cains  did  not  insist ;  but  the  door  had  scarcely 
closed  on  Sybil,  when  she  rose  and  followed  her  out. 

"  Ay,  do,  Miss  Cains,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  anxiously.  "  I  do 
not  fancy  the  child  being  left  alone." 

There  was  a  pause  after  Miss  Cains  was  gone  ;  then  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy said  very  seriously : 

"  Something  ails  Pussy." 

"  She  is  excitable,"  answered  Mr.  Dermot. 

"She  has  not  recovered  that  affair  with  Count  dc  Renne- 
ville — and  yet  it  was  all  her  own  doing." 

Mr.  Dermot  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"  What  has  she  to  regret  in  him?"  he  asked,  with  some 
scorn. 


Sybil's  second  love.  2il 

"  No,  no,  I  do  not  agree  with  you  there,  Ned.  He  was 
handsome,  and  gentlemanlike,  and  courteous,  and  lie  had  that 
chivalrous  air  which  girls  like — he  "was  a  count  too  !  No,  no,  I 
do  not  wonder  at  Sybil — only,  if  she  regrets  him,  why  did  she 
pack  him  off"?  I  have  been  thinking  that  this  matter  might  be 
mended;  and  do  you  know,  Ned,  I  think  you  are  just  the  man 
to  do  it" 

"If" 

"  Yes,  why  not  ?  " 

"  I  would  see  her  dead  first !  " 

Mr.  Dermot  spoke  with  considerable  energy,  and  was  evi- 
dently what  Mr.  Kennedy  was  in  the  habit  of  calling  "  right 
down  in  earnest !  "  He  whistled,  and  scanned  attentively  his 
friend's  flushed  and  almost  angry  face,  and  a  suspicion  that  Mr. 
Dermot  was  smitten  with  Sybil  himself  found  its  way  into  Mr. 
Kennedy's  mind. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said  carelessly,  "  Sybil  will  not  want  for  a 
husband  ;  she  is  a  decidedly  pretty  girl !  " 

Mr.  Dermot  was  silent,  and  did  not  seem  to  have  heard 
him. 

"  And  you  know,  Ned,  what  a  clever  little  pussy  she  is ! 
always  reading,  and  when  she  talks,  as  wise  as  if  she  were  forty. 
I  uever  saw  such  a  girl !  " 

"  Pretty !  "  said  Mr.  Dermot  dreamily.  "  Yes,  she  is  pretty, 
and,  as  you  say,  she  is  clever  ;  but,  James,  she  is  better  than  all 
that — she  is  simply  charming  !  " 

His  voice  was  low,  and  very  musical,  as  he  spoke — music 
that  seemed  to  come  from  the  depths  of  his  heart.  His  look 
was  soft  and  vague,  and  his  lip  smiled.  He  seemed  in  one  of 
those  unguarded  moods,  when  man  or  woman  must  needs  be- 
tray  the  most  jealously  cherished  secret.  He  did  not  see  Mr. 
Kennedy's  smile,  he  did  not  detect  the  triumphant  light  in  his 
eye ;  his  own  look  was  bent  on  the  fire,  and  seemed  to  read 
something  there,  a  tale  full  of  sweetness  and  alluring  promises. 

But  subtle,  and  often  deceiving,  is  the  language  or  a  human 
face.     The  story  which  Mr.  Dermot  read  was  past,  not  future. 

"  How  that  girl  would  have  tempted  me  seven  years  ago  !  " 
he  thought. 

He  did  not   think,  "  Here  is  an  exquisite  prize  within   my 

reach — let  me  make  an  effort  to  secure  it."     For  a  moment  he 

went  back  to  his  youth,  and  put  Sybil   there,  as  we  put  the 

heroes  and  heroines  of  our  favorite  books  in  our  daily  life.    For 

11 


242  sybil's  second  love. 

a  moment  she  was  his  young  mistress,  despotic  hut  fond,  and 
adored.  The  next  she  was  Sybil,  and  he  Mr.  Dermot,  who  once 
more  forgave  her  her  little  caprices,  and  cordially  wished  her  a 
good  husband. 

"And  she  has  money,  too,"  continued  Mr.  Kennedy. 

"  And  that,"  gayly  said  Mr.  Dermot,  "  will  get  her  counts  by 
the  dozen." 

"  To  be  sure,  and  so  it  ought,"  stoutly  replied  Mr.  Kennedy, 
who  was  a  true  worshipper  of  Mammon. 

On  going  up  to  her  room,  Sybil  had  flung  herself  on  her 
bed,  and  there  bui'st  into  piteous  sobs  and  moans,  meant  for  no 
one's  ear ;  but  she  had  forgotten  to  lock  her  door,  and  when  it 
opened  and  admitted  Miss  Cains,  Sybil  started  up,  flushed, 
ashamed,  and  angry,  and  with  a  hasty  gesture  threw  back  her 
dishevelled  hair,  and  looked  almost  sullenly  at  her  friend. 

'"Come,  I  will  have  none  of  those  looks,"  said  Miss  Cains, 
going  up  to  her,  and  speaking  gayly,  and  yet  very  firmly ;  "  I 
know  I  am  an  intruder,  but  I  will  intrude  because  you  are  ill, 
not  in  body,  but  in  mind.  I  know  what. ails  you,  Sybil,  and  I 
come  to  tell  you  this:  you  must  never — never  think  of  that 
man ;  he  is  not  good  ;  he  is  not  true,  and  he  does  not  like  you." 

She  spoke  in  a  clear,  cold,  and  deliberate  voice,  which  con- 
founded Sybil,  and  with  the  strangeness  of  her  address,  kept  her 
mute.     Miss  Cains  continued — 

"  I  know  you  think  me  hard — the  fact  is,  I  am  a  surgeon 
now,  and  can  show  no  mercy." 

"  I  ask  for  none,"  replied  Sybil — "I  only  ask  for  peace." 

"  That  means,  '  Leave  me ; '  but  I  cannot  leave  you,  Sybil, 
because  you  are  in  grief.  Good  Heaven  !  what  can  you  see  in 
him  ? "  she  exclaimed,  impatiently — "  a  doubtful  name,  a  bad 
temper,  and  nothing  to  redeem  either." 

Sybil  stood  up,  and  looked  firmly  at  Miss  Cains. 

"  Blanche,"  she  said,  "  do  you  like  him  ? " 

"  You  mean,  do  I  love  him  ?  "  said  Miss  Cains,  with  flashing 
eyes — "  no,  Sybil,  and  no,  ten  times." 

Sybil  flung  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her  friend,  and 
burst  into  piteous  sobs  and  tears. 

"  Then  pity  me — pity  me  !  "  she  said,  "for  I  do." 

"Do  you?"  said  Blanche,  and  if  Sybil  had  looked  up,  she 
would  have  thought  that  her  friend  looked  very  moody  indeed. 


sybil's  second  love.  243 


CHAPTER     XXXII. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  this  love,  which  so  often  mates  the 
wise  lose  their  senses,  and  which  often,  too,  gives  wisdom  to 
fools.  A  subtle,  penetrating  power,  it  has  pervaded  earth  since 
the  days  when  she  was  young,  and  it  is  as  fresh  and  pure  in  this, 
her  ripe  maturity,  as  when  she  rose  smiling  from  the  depths  of 
chaos,  so  wondrous  and  so  fair,  that  the  veiy  angels  acknowl- 
edged her  beanty.  Mysterious  Eros  !  well  might  the  old  world 
make  a  god  of  thee,  and  tremble  before  thy  might,  when  it  saw 
thee  rule  the  human  heart,  and  laugh  every  other  passion  to 
scorn !  A  very  chameleon  thou  hast  been,  pure  with  the  deli- 
cate, coarse  with  the  low — with  many  impassioned  or  sublime. 
What  aspect  hast  thou  not  taken  2  and  under  which  hast  thou 
not  triumphed  ?  Happy  they  who  pass  unscathed  through  thine 
ordeal,  and  who  do  not  leave  some  grace,  some  virtue,  some 
charm  of  mind  or  heart  in  these  scorching  fires !  They  are 
amongst  the  chosen  ones,  and  may  boast.  They  are  the  gold 
refined,  which  has  gone  through  the  crucible  of  Time  and  Sorrow. 

Through  this  ordeal  Sybil  was  now  to  pass;  and  how  she 
would  come  forth — nobler,  better,  and  more  generous,  or  fretful, 
embittered,  and  scorned,  was  still  a  tale  to  tell.  When  she 
awoke  the  next  morning,  she  felt  very  ill,  and  would  not  rise. 
Her  whole  frame  ached,  and  she  was  in  a  parching  fever.  On 
her  own  authority  Miss  Cains  bade  her  friend  keep  her  room, 
and  took  her  post  by  her  bedside — a  zealous  and  unremitting 
nurse. 

"  But  you  must  make  haste  and  get  well  again,  please,"  she 
said  gayly,  "  for,  thanks  to  you,  I  am  fast  losing  Mr.  Kennedy's 
good  graces.  He  decidedly  resents  my  being  so  well  when 
Pussy  is  ill." 

Sybil  smiled  languidly,  then  colored,  and  turned  her  flushed 
face  to  the  wall,  as  a  step  passed  by  her  door.  But  Miss  Cains 
would  not  see  this,  for  there  was  a  subject  on  which  they  must 
not  speak. 

After  a  few  days  Sybil  got  well  again,  and  resolved  one  morn- 
ing to  go  down-stairs  to  breakfast.  But  she  did  not  say  so  to 
Miss  Cains,  and  whilst  that  young  lady  was  dressing  Sybil  softly 
stole  down.  There  was  no  one  in  the  dining-room  when  she 
entered  it,  but  a  blazing  fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  and  Sybil, 
who  felt  chilly,  knelt  on  the  rug  before  it.     Presently  the  door 


24.4  sybil's  second  l@ve. 

opened,  but  Sybil  would  not  look  round.  She  knew  it  was  not 
her  father,  nor  Blanche,  nor  any  of  the  servants — breakfast  would 
not  be  ready  for  an  hour  yet — she  knew  it  was  Mr.  Dermot. 

"  Why,  you  little  fire-worshipper  !  "  he  said  gayly,  "  are  you 
up  and  well  again  ?  " 

He  now  stood  by  her  side.  And  Sybil,  still  kneeling,  looked 
up  at  him.  Nature  had  bestowed  a  handsome  face  and  person 
on  Mr.  Dermot ;  but  gravity  or  care  could  darken  his  aspect  in 
a  very  remarkable  manner.  On  the  contrary,  joy,  and  merely 
pleasure,  lit  up  his  countenance,  and  gave  it  a  brilliancy  and  a 
glow  which  made  him  look  ten  years  younger.  As  she  saw  him 
now,  Sybil  had  never  seen  him  before ;  Mr.  Dermot  looked  the 
happiest  of  men.  There  was  happiness  in  his  eye  and  happi- 
ness in  his  smile  ;  Sybil  felt  both  amazed  and  dazzled. 

"  I  am  very  well  again,"  she  said  ;  "  but  what  ails  you,  Mr. 
Dermot  ? " 

"  Sit  up,  and  I  will  tell  you  ;  but  you  remember  the  seal  of 
Alexander  on  Ephestion's  lips?" 

"  I  never  repeat  what  you  tell  me,"  gravely  said  Sybil. 

"  I  knew  it,  Sybil,  I  knew  it,"  he  said  with  a  peculiar  smile. 
"  "Well,  then,  wish  me  joy,  my  little  friend,  wish  me  joy — for  I 
am  free ! " 

Sibil  heard  him  with  a  shock  of  joy.  Free  !  Mr.  Dermot 
was  free  !  Then  it  was  not  at  least  a  sin  to  think  of  him.  She 
wronged  none  save  her  own  poor  self  by  so  doing.  From  her 
heart  she  cried: 

"Thank  God!" 

He  took  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"  What  made  you  so  cross  so  long? "  he  asked  with  a  smile. 

Sybil  trembled.  A  wild,  passionate  joy,  an  undercurrent  of 
tumultuous  happiness,  passed  through  the  abiding  sorrow  at  her 
heart.  She  knew  very  well  Mr.  Dermot  did  not  love  her ;  but 
hope  said  that  he  might  some  day.  Just  now  he  looked  as  if 
she  were  very  dear  to  him.  "Why  might  she  not  grow  dearer 
still? 

"  What  made  you  so  cross  so  long?"  he  asked  again.  "I 
mean,  so  cross  with  me." 

At  another  time  Sybil  would  have  answered  him  with  a 
&au:y  look  and  still  more  saucy  speech  ;  now  she  could  not. 
She  withdrew  her  hand  from  his,  and  looked  at  the  fire  and 
smiled,  as  she  answered  : 

"  I  really  don't  know,  Mr.  Dermot ;  forget  and  forgive  it." 


sybil's  second  lote.  245 

"  Confess  it  was  Miss  Cains' s  doing." 

Sybil  reddened. 

"It  was  my  own  perversity,  and  nothing  else,"  she  said 
gravely. 

"  Then  do  not  be  perverse  again,  my  dear,"  he  said  very 
kindly. 

"Ah  !  if  he  knew — if  he  knew  ! "  thought  Sybil. 

Her  eyes  were  bent  on  the  fire,  and  she  did  not  perceive 
that  Mr  Dermot's  searching  look  was  fastened  on  her  face.  Sybil 
was  much  altered  in  manner,  even  more  than  in  looks;  his  cu- 
riosity was  roused,  and  he  was  endeavoring  to  read  in  her 
saddened  countenance  the  secret  of  her  trouble. 

"  Sybil ! "  he  said  suddenlv,  "  do  vou  regret  Count  de  Rcu- 
neville  ? " 

"  Regret  a  traitor,  a  false  gentleman  !  "  cried  Sybil  with  quick 
resentment. 

"  No,  you  could  not — I  knew  it ;  well,  thank  God,  you  too 
are  free  !  Ah  !  what  would  you  feel  if  it  were  not  three  months, 
but  three  years,  that  were  blotted  from  your  life  ?  Look,  Sybil, 
here  is  my  liberty." 

He  took  out  and  showed  her  a  packet  of  letters.  For  a  while 
he  held  it  poised  in  his  hand,  and  his  face  was  dark  and  severe 
all  the  time. 

" What  wretched  stuff  there  must  be  in  them!"  he  said 
moodily.  "  What  a  prostration  of  man's  mind  and  pride  that 
love  makes  !     I  am  ashamed,  Sybil,  when  I  think  of  it." 

His  face  was  flushed.  Sybil  look  at  him,  then  at  the  letters. 
How  she  longed  to  read  one,  but  one,  the  fondest.  It  would 
have  pained  her,  but  still  she  would  have  liked  to  see  in  what 
language  Mr.  Dermot  wrote  of  love  to  the  woman  he  loved. 
Wretched  woman,  how  had  she  forfeited  his  heart  ?  How  did  she 
feel,  now  that  it  was  lost  and  gone,  and  she  was  left  all  desolate 
and  forlorn  ?  Mr.  Dermot  took  the  letters,  and  thrust  them  one 
by  one  into  the  fire.  No  pity,  no  remorse  for  that  dead  love 
held  him  back.  His  look  was  scornful,  his  smile  derisive. 
One  after  another  the  flame  caught  these  letters  and  consumed 
them,  and  when  the  last  lay  a  black  parched  scroll  before  him, 
Mr.  Dermot  breathed  a  relieved  sigh  and  said  :  "  Let  that  folly 
be  forgotten— eh,  Sybil  ? " 

Svbil  awoke  as  if  out  of  a  dream. 

"Folly,  was  it  folly?"  she  said. 

"  Arrant  folly !     And  let  us  hope  that  Edward  Dermot  is 


246  sybil's  secootd  love. 

now~a  wise  man.  I  should  not  like,  poor  fellow,  to  see  him  fal. 
into  such  a  trap  again  !  " 

"  I  will  die  before  he  suspects  any  thing  ? "  thought  Sybil, 
looking  at  him. 

"  Now  what  does  that  look  mean  ? "  he  asked  quickly — "tell 
me,  Sybil." 

Sybil  turned  red  and  pale  ;  but  she  was  spared  the  trouble 
of  replying ;  the  door  opened,  and  Blanche  Cains  appeared  on 
the  threshold.  Mr.  Dermot  looked  round  slowly,  and  Sybil  saw 
tbem  exchange  a  cold,  long  look  of  dislike  and  defiauce. 

"  What  are  you  doing  with  my  patient,  Mr.  Dermot  ? "  asked 
Blanche,  smiling  as  she  came  forward. 

"Admiring  her,  Miss  Cains,"  he  composedly  replied.  "  She 
looks  a  very  rosy  patient,  just  now  !" 

"She  is  undutiful,"  said  Blanche.  "I  had  not  the  least 
suspicion  she  was  down  here." 

But  Sybil  did  not  blush  or  look  conscious.  She  knew  she 
had  not  come  down  to  see  Mr.  Dermot,  or  to  be  with  him  ;  and, 
in  her  pride,  she  felt  above  the  reach  of  accusation  implied  or 
spoken.  So  she  gave  her  friend  a  clear  look,  and  smiled  as  she 
answered, 

"  I  wished  to  surprise  you  all." 

That  manner  she  preserved  all  day.  She  remained  com- 
posed, rather  silent,  but  very  calm.  She  did  not  speak,  unless 
when  spoken  to,  and  then  she  seemed  to  come  out  of  some  far 
dream,  not  melancholy  or  unpleasant,  but  very  remote. 

"  Something  ails  Pussy,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy  to  his  friend. 

lie  seemed  puzzled,  but  was  not  half  so  much  so  as  Mr. 
Dermot.  This  was  a  new  Sybil — not  the  merry  little  Sybil  of 
old  days — not  the  blushing  Sybil,  whom  the  Count  de  Renneville 
had  wooed ;  still  less  the  pale,  sad  Sybil  whom  he  had  betrayed, 
but  another  Sybil,  calm  and  thoughtful,  who  lived  in  a  world 
beyond  Mr.  Dermot's  ken,  and  did  not  seem  unhappy  there. 

The  day  was  wet  and  uncongenial.  Mr.  Dermot  had  little 
to  do  ;  some  portion  of  his  time  was  spent  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  as  his  curiosity  was  roused,  he  would  probably  have  devoted 
that  portion  to  studying  and  perhaps  questioning  Sybil,  if  Miss 
Cains  had  not  pertinaciously  sat  by  her  friend,  and  kept  him 
aloof.  Not  one  second  did  she  leave  her,  till  Mr.  Kennedy  asked 
for  his  game  of  chess  in  the  evening.  Then,  indeed,  she  rose 
from  her  scat  on  the  couch  near  Sybil,  but  evident  was  her  re- 
luctance. 


SYBIL'S  SECOlsTD   LOVE.  247 

"  Come  and  look  at  me  playing,"  she  said  coaxingly. 

"  No ;  I  cannot  endure  chess,"  replied  Sybil. 

"  Then  Mr.  Dermot  will  keep  you  company,"  pointedly  said 
Miss  Cains,  looking  at  Mr.  Dermot  in  the  act  of  rising. 

"The  very  thing  I  intend  doing,  Miss  Cains,"  he  answered, 
sinking  down  into  her  vacant  place. 

"Why  are  they  so  at  war! "  thought  Sybil,  again  detecting 
the  unfriendly  look  they  exchanged. 

Miss  Cains  complained  of  the  heat  of  the  fire,  and  wanted 
to  have  the  chess-table  drawn  nearer  to  Sybil,  who  was  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room ;  but  Mr.  Kennedy  misunderstood  her, 
and  removed  the  table  still  farther  from  the  couch  where  Mr. 
Dermot  and  Sybil  were  sitting.  Miss  Cains  looked  scarcely 
pleased,  and  Mr.  Dermot  smiled,  leaned  back,  and  at  once 
addressed  Sybil  in  a  subdued  key,  which  could  not  well  be 
heard  near  the  chess-table. 

"  "What  ails  you — what  is  it,  Sybil  ?  You  are  an  altered 
girl,  you  know.  You  are  like  the  wedding  guest  in  the  ballad — 
some  one  has  told  you  a  tale  that  has  made  you  sadder  and 
wiser.     Do  tell  me  what  it  is,  Sybil?" 

Sybil  looked  up  at  him,  and  smiled  in  proud  and  sad  triumph. 
She  wondered  how  he  would  have  felt  if  he  knew — she  won- 
dered, but  scarcely  doubted.  Could  Mr.  Dermot — could  any 
man  resist  the  temptation  of  knowing  himself  beloved  by  a 
girl  young,  pretty,  and  whom  he  had  always  both  liked  and  ad- 
mired ? 

"  Do  tell  me  !  "  he  entreated.  "  I,  too,  should  like  to  know 
that  wonderful  story." 

"  No  one  told  it  to  me,"  replied  Sybil,  looking  at  him  wist- 
fully. 

She  felt  not  the  least,  not  the  faintest  temptation  to  enlight- 
en him. 

"I  could  live  years  in  this  house  with  him,  and  keep  my 
secret,"  she  thought  proudly. 

"Then  you  invented  it,  you  little  witch.  If  I  were  a  paint- 
er, I  would  make  a  picture  out  of  you  just  now." 

"Oh,  if  he  admires  me,  I  am  undone,"  thought  Sybil,  get- 
ting frightened ;  but  Mr.  Dermot  did  not  go  on  with  admira- 
tion. 

"Sybil,"  he  said,  a  little  impatiently,  "what  did  she  mean 
by  keeping  so  close  to  you  all  day  ?  Don't  let  yourself  be  cha- 
peroned by  her,  if  you  please  ;  and  above  all,  don't  make  a 
stranger  of  your  friend." 


248  Sybil's  second  love. 

His  friendly  look,  so  frank,  so  open,  excluded  both  hope  and 
fear.  Sybil  need  never  fear  Mr.  Dermot,  for  he  would  never  be 
so  near  her  secret  as  to  guess  it ;  and  how  could  she  hope  if  she 
feared  not? 

"  No  one  chaperones  me,"  she  began — she  did  not  continue  ; 
the  door  opened,  and  Narcisse  appeared,  bringing  in  a  letter  for 
Mr.  Kennedy.     Mr.  Dermot  looked  up  surprised. 

"  This  is  not  post-time,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  not,"  replied  Narcisse ;  "  but  the  weather  has  been 
rough,  and  the  packet  was  late — so  at  least  the  postman  told 
me." 

"  I  believe  he  is  an  oyster,  though,"  suggested  Mr.  Dermot, 
gravely. 

"  He  is,"  quite  as  seriously  replied  Narciss*e,  with  whom 
this  blessed  universe  was  little  better  than  a  receptacle  for  his 
favorite  Testacea. 

In  the  mean  while,  Mr.  Kennedy  was  reading  his  letter. 
Blanche,  whose  move  it  was,  seemed  absorbed  in  a  brown  study. 

"  Dermot!  "  excitedly  said  Mr.  Kennedy. 

In  a  moment,  Mr.  Dermot,  who  had  been  watching  him,  was 
by  his  side.  Sybil  looked  at  them  both  with  a  beating  heart. 
Something,  she  did  not  know  what,  but  something  was  at  hand. 
Mr.  Kennedy  held  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  Mr.  Dermot,  bend- 
ing over  his  shoulder,  read  it.  It  was  brief,  but  significant,  no 
doubt,  for  Sybil  saw  them  exchange  perplexed  looks. 

"  Where  is  the  Times  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dermot,  quickly. 

Sybil  rose  swiftly,  and  brought  it  to  him.  He  took  it  with- 
out thanking  her.  His  eye  ran  rapidly  over  it ;  she  saw  that 
he  singled  out  the  shipping  news. 

"  The  Mountain  Fairy  sails  to-morrow,"  he  said,  eagerly  ; 
"  I  can  cross  over  to-night." 

Mr.  Kennedy  stared. 

"  There's  no  packet." 

"  There  are  fishing-boats,"  replied  Mr.  Dermot,  gayly. 

"  The  weather  is  rough." 

"It  has  been  rough,"  decisively  said  Mr.  Dermot;  "I  do 
not  care  about  the  swell.  I  have  two  hours  before  me,"  he 
added,  taking  out  his  watch. 

Mr.  Kennedy  looked  very  grave,  but  made  no  further  objec- 
tion Mr.  Dermot's  gray  eyes  sparkled  with  excitement.  Sybil, 
who  stood  by  him  unheeded,  felt,  with  a  dull  despair,  that  he 
was  going  away — away  far  from  St.  Vincent,  Heaven  alone  knew 


sybil's  second  love.  24:9 

whither,  and  for  how  long !  She  looked  at  him  pitifully,  in 
very  dreary  earnestness,  but  he  did  not  see  her — he  saw  nothing 
then.  He  took  two  or  three  turns  about  the  room,  then  he  left 
it,  and  she  could  hear  his  quick  step  going  down-stairs.  Mr. 
Kennedy,  who  still  looked  very  grave,  slowly  followed  him  out, 
and  the  two  girls  remained  alone.  Blanche  came  up  to  her 
friend. 

"  Sybil,"  she  said,  you  have  been  good,  and  brave — be  so 
till  the  last." 

"  He  is  going  away,"  replied  Sybil,  who  was  ashy  pale ; 
"  he  is  going  away,  Blanche  !  " 

"  Never  mind,  child — he  will  come  back,  you  know ;  only, 
for  goodness'  sake,  do  not  betray  yourself!  " 

"  He  would  not  see  it,  Blanche — he  sees  nothing — he  is  too 
happy  to  go — did  you  see  that  ? " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  I  saw  it — let  him  go,  then." 

"  He  is  going  to  Canada,  Blanche.  I  know  the  Mountain 
Fairy  sails  for  Canada.  I  read  it  in  the  Times.  The  John- 
sons have  failed,  or  something  of  the  kind,  and  he  is  going  away." 

She  spoke  in  a  low,  dull  voice  ;  she  looked  the  picture  of 
misery.  She  had  wished,  she  had  hoped — for  when  can  love 
cease  to  do  either? — and  hope  and  desire  were  wrecked.  He 
was  going  away — when  Avould  he  return  ? — when  would  he 
ever  care  for  her  now  ? 

"  You  will  break  down  at  the  parting,"  said  Miss  Cains, 
anxiously. 

"  Oh !  no,"  very  drearily  replied  Sybil ;  "  but  all  is  over, 
Blanche,  and — and  I  suppose  I  did  hope." 

She  sat  down.  A  few  minutes  back  she  had  felt  almost 
happy.  A  few  minutes  before  he  had  sat  by  her,  looking  so 
kind  and  so  friendly.  A  few  minutes  before  she  had  felt  as  if 
happiness  were  within  her  grasp,  if  she  but  chose  to  seize  it ; 
and  now,  now  where  was  it  ?  She  looked  at  the  blank  before 
her  in  mute  despair.  A  few  hours  more,  less  by  far,  and  Saint 
Vincent  would  know  him  no  more — his  room  would  be  cold 
and  empty ;  his  voice,  his  look,  his  step  would  be  absent,  and 
where  was  her  remedy !  Was  she  his  sister,  his  wife,  his  be- 
trothed ?  She  was  nothing — forever  nothing  !  She  rose  with  a 
sudden,  sharp  cry. 

"  Blanche,  I  cannot  bear  it !  "  she  said.  "  I  cannot  bear  it !  " 

As  she  spoke  the  door  opened,  and  her  father  entered  the 
Kom.     Bis  countenance  was  quite  clear  and  pleasant  again. 
11* 


250  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Young  ladies,"  lie  said,  "  the  traveller  bade  me  wish  you 
good-by  for  him.  He  had  no  time  to  come  himself.  Miss 
Cains,  it  was  your  move,  I  believe." 

He  sat  down  to  resume  the  interrupted  game  of  chess,  but 
Sybil  would  not  let  him.  She  twined  her  arms  around  his 
neck  with  passionate  eagerness. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  she  said.  "  Have  the  Johnsons  failed  ?  Is 
he  going  to  Canada  ?  Will  he  come  back?  What  is  it,  papa, 
do  tell  me,  darling  ?  " 

Sybil  never  questioned  her  father,  and  Mr.  Kennedy  never 
spoke  of  business  matters  to  his  daughter ;  but  he  was  taken 
by  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  the  Johnsons  are  going  all  wrong ;  but 
Dermot  will  be  there  in  time,  thanks  to  a  friendly  warning,  and 
of  course  he  will  come  back,  Pussy." 

"  When  ?— when  ? " 

"  A  year  hence,  perhaps.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"I  had  something  to  say  to  him,"  vaguely  replied  Sybil, 
releasing  her  hold  of  Mr.  Kennedy. 

"  Then  you  must  write  it,"  gayly  said  her  father.  "  Miss 
Cains,  it  was  your  move." 

They  resumed  the  interrupted  game,  and  Sybil  went  and 
sat  alone  on  the  couch  where  Mr.  Dermot  had  asked  her  to  tell 
him  the  tale  of  the  change  he  saw  in  her.  The  tale  was  told 
now — told  forever,  Sybil  felt.  He  would  forget  her  in  other 
scenes,  and  that  slight  hold  she  had  of  him  would  perish  in  the 
broad  chasm  of  a  year.  He  was  free,  and  may  be  he  would  seek 
some  other  bondage  before  they  met  again.  Let  him  !  Hope 
died  in  Sybil's  heart  that  evening ;  no  slow,  lingering  agony 
was  hers,  with  days  of  health  and  strength  between  alternatives 
of  sick  despair — but  a  sudden,  violent  death,  that  laid  her  inan- 
imate and  pale  in  that  girlish  bosom  which  had  been  her  brief 
sanctuary. 

Mr.  Dermot  was  gone ;  he  was  really  gone ;  there  was  no 
reprieve,  blessed  and  unexpected,  to  that  cruel  fiat ;  he  was 
gone,  for  a  telegram  came  the  next  morning  stating  that  he  had 
reached  the  English  coast  safely. 

This  was  the  second  great  bitterness  in  Sybil's  life ;  the 
third  was  vet  to  come. 


sybil's  second  love.  25J 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  Sybil,  don't  betray  yourself,  or  Mr. 
Kennedy  must  see  it  all,"  said  Miss  Cains  to  Sybil  tbe  next 
morning. 

Perhaps  Sybil  would  not  have  cared  much  if  her  father  had 
seen  it  all,  as  Blanche  said ;  but  she  felt  no  anxiety  on  that  head 
for  the  excellent  reason  that  her  father  was  not  in  Saint  Vin- 
cent, and  she  told  her  friend  so. 

"  He  is  gone  up  the  north  for  a  few  days." 
Miss  Cains  looked  surprised,  and  scarcely  pleased. 
"  It  seems  the  fashion  in  this  house  for  people  to  go  away 
and  not  bid  those  who  stay  behind  a  good-by  ! "    she  remarked 
dryly 

"  "  Oh !  Blanche,  do  not  think  papa  meant  a  slight,  pray  do 
not !  "  earnestly  said  Sybil. 

"  Oh !  no,"  carelessly  replied  Miss  Cains.  "  You  do  not 
think  he  has  gone  to  England  about  those  Thompsons,  do  you, 
Sybil  ? " 

"  Xo,  he  is  gone  up  the  north  to  buy  rape-seed,  or  something 
of  the  kind." 

Miss  Cains  looked  very  thoughtful,  and  Sybil  relapsed  into 
her  dull,  silent  misery.  He  had  crossed  over  safely  on  that 
clear,  cold,  moonlit  night ;  he  had  taken  the  early  express  train  ; 
he  was  in  London  by  this,  may  be  on  board  the  Mountain  Fairy. 
Sybil  had  seen  the  Thames  shipping  once ;  she  remembered  that 
wonderful  scene — the  forests  of  masts,  the  shooting  boats,  the 
glassy  water,  the  hissing  steamers,  the  smoke  and  fog,  and  the 
pale  sun  gleaming  over  all;  and  as  she  sat  with  Blanche  Cains 
mechanically  plying  her  crochet-needle,  she  was  not  in  the 
warm  drawino--room  of  Saint  Vincent.  She  stood  on  the 
wharf;  she  saw  Mr.  Dermot  in  the  wherry  which  shot  from  the 
docks.  He  talked  and  laughed  with  the  boatman,  he  shook 
his  tawny  hair,  and  his  gray  eye  lit,  but  she  could  not  hear  him, 
she  was  so  far  awav.  The  steamer  was  reached.  Strong  and 
agile,  he  leaped  on  the  deck,  and  made  his  way  amongst  the 
passengers.  Then  he  went  down  the  narrow  stairs  to  his  cabin, 
and  vanished.  A  bell  ranar,  the  deck  was  cleared  of  strangers 
the  steamer  made  her  way  midst  the  multitude  of  ships  ami 
boats  around  her.  Down  the  broadening  Thames  she  went  ;  the 
open  sea  was  reached,  coasts  vanished,  and  the  Mountain  Fairy 


252  sybil's  second  love. 

« 

moved  alone,  a  solitary  speck  between  sea  and  sty,  soon  to  be 
lost  in  the  vast  Atlantic. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it ! — I  cannot  bear  it !  "  cried  Sybil  again, 
and  she  flung  her  work  away,  and  threw  herself  sobbing  and 
moaning  across  the  table. 

Miss  Cains  was  concerned. 

"  Now,  darling,  do  not — do  not,"  she  said  ;  "  do  not,  there 
is  some  one  coming." 

Sybil  looked  up,  flushed  and  joyful.  Could  it  be  ? — was  he 
returning  ? 

"  No,  no,"  quickly  said  Blanche,  "  this  is  a  lady — a  visitor. 
I  do  not  know  her,  but  I  heard  her  talking  to  Denise." 

Sybil  dried  her  tears,  and  stood  with  her  back  to  the  light, 
The  drawing-room  door  opened,  and  admitted  Mrs.  Mush.  That 
lady  had  long  ceased  to  be  mentioned  in  Saint  Vincent ;  Sybil 
had  mentally  given  her  up  two  months  ago,  and  was  taken  by 
surprise  on  seeing  her.  Still,  she  did  her  best  to  conceal  this 
feeling,  and  welcome  her  cousin. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Mush,"  she  said,  going  up  to  her,  "  how  long 
you  have  been  coming  ! " 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  was  a  very  short  time  ;  I  had  a  remarkably 
good  passage." 

"  Oh  !  but  I  mean  bow  long  this  visit  of  yours  has  been  de- 
layed.    We.  have  been  expecting  you  ages." 

Mrs.  Mush  sat  down  without  answering.  She  had  been 
spending  the  winter  with  Mrs.  Steele,  and  had  been  sick  of  her 
life,  poor  thing !  and  on  Mr.  Kennedy's  first  summons,  she  had 
hastened  back  to  the  calm  and  pleasant  world  of  Saint  Vincent, 
and  now  Sybil  reproached  her  for  having  delayed  her  visit  so 
long !  It  was  awkward,  but  a  life  of  poverty  had  taught  Mrs. 
Mush  the  wisdom  of  not  being  too  frank,  so  she  answered  in  her 
light  way, 

"  My  dear,  if  I  had  come  earlier,  I  should  not  have  been 
'  finished '  by  Mrs.  Steele.  Now  I  am  as  perfect  as  she  can 
make  me,  and,  indeed,  I  am  so  improved  that  you  will  not 
know  me.  But  what  have  you  been  doing,  my  poor  child? 
You  look  quite  ill !  " 

"  I  have  not  been  well,  Mrs.  Mush." 

Mrs.  Mush  had  heard  of  Count  de  Renneville,  and  kindly 
laid  Sybil's  altered  looks  to  his  account. 

"Ob!  that  love!"  she  mentally  exclaimed,  "that  love! 
Well,  my  dear,"  she  cheerfully  resinned,  "I  bring  news — great 
news !  " 


sybil's  second  love.  253 

Sybil's  heart  beat.  News  !  what  news  could  there  be  save 
of  him  ?     She  looked  eagerly  at  Mrs.  Mush. 

"  Yes,  great  news,"  resumed  Mrs.  Mush.  "  Your  aunt,  Mrs. 
Glyn,  has  at  length  accomplished  the  aim  and  ambition  of  her 
life.  She  has  learned  how  to  apply  capital,  and  she  is  setting 
up  on  her  own  account  within  half  an  hour's  walk  of  Saint  Vin- 
cent. Herring  curiug,  butter  salting,  are  to  be  Miss  Glyn's  oc- 
cupation. She  has  some  thousands,  you  see,"  added  Mrs. 
Mush  with  a  sigh,  for  she,  poor  thing  !  had  but  hundreds,  "  and 
she  naturally  wants  to  get  rid  of  them." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Sybil,  vaguely. 

"  Yes,  but  do  not  tell  her  so,  my  dear.  She  is  delighted. 
And  now,  you  naughty  girl,  why  do  you  not  introduce  me  to 
Miss  Cains  all  this  time  ?  " 

Sybil  looked  confused,  for  Blanche  had  been  sitting  aloof 
with  rather  an  offended  air,  but  she  now  came  forward  smiling 
and  bore  unflinchingly  Mrs.  Mush's  keen  look.  It  was  a  very 
keen  look.  It  seemed  to  wish  to  read  Blanche  Cains  thoroughly  ; 
to  wish,  but  scarcely  to  succeed.  The  languid  blue  eyes,  the 
calm  smile,  the  easy  grace,  baffled  Mrs.  Mush.  So  she  dropped 
her  scrutinizing  gaze,  and  became  chatty  and  pleasant,  whilst 
Sybil  gave  a  few  orders  for  her  reception. 

Drearily  unwelcome  was  Mrs.  Mush's  arrival  to  the  poor  girl. 
For  now  sorrow  had  to  be  locked  up  in  her  own  breast,  a  mute 
and  fettered,  but  rebellious  captive. 

"Oh  !  if  it  were  but  night,"  she  thought,  "  if  it  were  but 
night,  and  I  could  cry  and  moan  to  my  heart's  content !  " 

Poor  Sybil !  you  are  young  still,  very  young,  and  you  do 
not  know  the  silent  grief.  You  want  to  complain  and  cry  aloud, 
and  you  rebel  under  the  social  hypocrisy  of  life — that  inexo- 
rable law  which  bids  you  be  still,  and  tells  you  to  smile,  though 
your  heart  is  aching  ! 

But  slow  though  were  its  hours,  the  dreary  day  did  at  length 
go  by ;  Mrs.  Mush's  fluent  talk,  Blanche's  easy  gaycty,  were  both 
silent  now,  and  Sybil  was  once  more  alone.  Then,  in  the  silence 
of  her  room,  did  the  poor  child's  heart  at  length  find  a  sort  of 
dreary  peace.  It  found  more.  When,  after  kneeling  and  pray- 
ing, her  tears  had  ceased  to  flow,  and  when  with  them  the  bit- 
terness of  her  sorrow  had  partly  passed  away,  Sybil's  pride  and 
conscience  awoke.  What  was  this  grief  for  a  man  who  did  not 
love  her  ?  Why  were  these  tears  shed  for  one  whose  kind, 
careless  smile  of  wonder  she  could  imagine  and  feel,  even  in  the 


25-i  sybil's  second  love. 

solitude  of  her  room  ?  He  did  not  love  her — he  never  would 
love  her  now.  She  had  had  a  chance,  aud  that  chance  was  gone ; 
was  she  therefore  to  sit  lamenting  till  his  return  ?  She  must 
not,  and  she  would  not.  She  remembered  the  cold,  reproving 
glance  of  Blanche  Cains  as  they  had  parted  this  evening,  and 
she  could  not  bear  to  feel  that  she  had  deserved  the  censure  of 
that  look.  Blanche  was  not  asleep  yet,  and  Sybil  would  go  and 
tell  her  that  if  she  had  been  weak,  she  was  brave  and  strong 
again. 

Miss  Cains  was  gently  falling  asleep  when  her  room  door 
opened  softly,  a  step  crossed  the  floor  and  stopped  at  her  bed- 
side, and  a  voice  said  almost  in  her  ear :  "  Blanche,  are  you 
sleeping  ? " 

She  started  up,  and  saw  Sybil  standing  by  her  side,  a  candle 
in  one  hand — the  other  held  back  the  bed-curtain. 

"  Now,"  coolly  said  Miss  Cains,  "  you  want  but  a  dove  on 
your  shoulder  to  be  Lord  Lyttleton's  ghost !  " 

"  I  am  a  ghost,"  replied  Sybil,  in  a  sad,  low  voice ;  "  for  I 
come  from  another  world,  Blanche.  I  could  not  sleep  without 
telling  you  so.  You  need  never  look  at  me  again  as  you  looked 
this  evening — never!" 

Miss  Cains  seemed  perplexed. 

''What  does  it  mean,  Sybil  ?"  she  asked.  "You  know  I 
often  do  not  understand  you — what  does  it  mean  ? " 

Sybil  had  put  down  her  light — she  clasped  her  hands  with 
passionate  fervor. 

"  It  means,"  she  said,  "  that  I  have  asked  God  to  help  me, 
and  that  He  is  helping  me  fast,  Blanche.  It  means  that  I  love 
Mr.  Dermot,  beyond  my  life,  beyond  any  thing  mortal,  but  that 
I  will  conquer  that  love  and  prevail  over  it,  if  it  be  in  a  woman's 
heart  and  power  to  do  so !  Never  look  at  me  again  as  you 
looked  this  evening — never,  Blanche  !  " 

Miss  Cains  sank  back  on  her  pillow. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  she  half  sighed  ;  "  all  that  is  beyond  me — 
how  you  can  love  him,  is  beyond  me — and  how,  adoring  hhn  as 
you  do,  you  can  try  and  give  him  up,  is  beyond  me,  too." 

"  "What  would  you  do,  Blanche  ? "  asked  Sybil,  in  simple 
wonder. 

"Why,  I'd  have  him!"  coolly  replied  her  friend.  "Let 
him  go  to  Canada?  Not  I.  He  should  stay  here,  Sybil,  and 
tremble  to  let  me  out  of  his  sight.  There  never  was  a  thing  I 
wished  for  I  did  not  get ;  and,  if  that  thing  happened  to  be 
Greeneyes,  why,  I  should  have  it  too." 


sybil's  second  love.  255 

Sybil's  lids  full — she  blushed  deeply. 

"  I  see  you  are  quite  shocked,"  said  Miss  Cains ;  "  but  re- 
member, my  dear,  that,  luckily  for  decorum's  sake,  my  fancies  do 
not  run  that  way.  I  defy  any  man  to  say  that  I  ever  adored  him 
— and,  oh!  if  I  were  you,  how  I  would*  hate  that  cold  Mr.  Der- 
mot,  who  could  live  in  this  house  so  long  and  not  fall  desper- 
ately in  love  with  you ! " 

She  clinched  her  small  hands  as  she  spoke,  and  as  she  sat  up 
in  bed,  her  golden  hair  flowing  around  her  fair  face,  her  eyes 
fixed  in  scorn,  her  lips  compressed,  Miss  Cains  looked  a  terrible 
young  beauty. 

"  No,  you  do  not  understand  me,"  said  Sybil,  with  a  bright 
wondering  smile  ;  "  not  at  all,  Blanche.  I  would  die  first.  Of 
course  I  could  have  had  that  sort  of  liking  from  Mr.  Dermot.  It 
would  have  been  sadly  easy,"  she  added  with  a  pretty  curling 
lip  ;  "  for  I  am  sure  he  falls  in  love  very  readily." 

Blanche  colored  steadily. 

"  Indeed  !  "  she  said,  with  some  scorn. 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  calmly  resumed  Sybil ;  "  and  he  admires  me, 
too,  in  a  sort  of  way,  at  least ;  but,  Blanche,  I  would  hate  that. 
The  liking  I  would  have,  if  I  could  have  any,  is  the  liking  he 
could  not  help,  which  would  come  to  him,  and  conquer  him,  and 
humble  him — as  I  have  been  humbled — not  that  which,  by 
seeking,  I  could  give  him.  What !  "  she  added,  her  clear  voice 
ringing,  and  her  dark  eyes  flashing,  "  what !  do  I  love  him  so, 
that  it  seemed  this  evening  like  tearing  my  heartstrings  asunder 
to  try  and  prevail  over  that  love  ? — and  shall  I  be  liked  a  few 
days  because  I  have  dark  eyes  and  a  pretty  face  !  Blanche,  it 
would  be  the  deepest  abasement  and  humiliation." 

Miss  Cains  did  not  answer  at  once ;  she  sat  with  her  cheek 
on  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  full  on  Sybil's  glowing  face  and 
bright  eyes. 

"I  envy  you,"  she  said  at  leno-th — "yes,  you  may  look 
amazed,  but  I  envy  you ;  happy  girl,  to  turn  evil  into  good — 
sorrow  into  a  blessing !  " 

"Happy  girl!"  said  Sybil,  with  the  tears  rushing  to  her 
eyes — "  happy  girl,  did  you  say  ?  Oh  !  Blanche,  if  you  knew  ! 
— if  you  but  "knew  !  " 

She  turned  her  face  away,  for  she  would  have  had  no  one  read 
there  the  bitterness  of  her  heart.  Oh  !  how  that  heart  ached  at 
what  might  have  been,  and  must  never  be ! — how  it  repined 
over  inevitable  fate  !     Oh  !  if  she  could — if  she  but  could  have 


256  sybil's  second  love. 

changed  lots  with  that  unknown  future  rival ! — perhaps  some 
poor,  struggling  girl,  who  had  never  worn  a  silk  dress,  who  had 
not  a  shilling  for  her  dowry,  and  whom  Mr.  Dermot  would  prob 
ably  love  ere  they  met  again. 

"  Yes,  of  course,  if  I  knew,1'  said  Miss  Cains,  a  little  im 
patiently  ;  "  but  as  you  do  not  tell  me,  I  do  not  know." 

"  And  I  will  not — must  not  tell  you,"  said  Sybil,  firmly ; 
"  if  I  wish  to  prevail,  and  conquer  myself,  I  must  be  silent.  ] 
must  forget,  and  not  think — not  speak.  Henceforth,  Blanche, 
his  name  is  that  of  a  stranger — let  him  stay  away,  wed  whom 
he  will,  love  whom  he  pleases,  I  care  not,  because  I  must  not 
care — I  have  no  rig-ht.  It  would  be  wicked — it  would  be 
wrong." 

Her  voice  faltered  a  little  as  she  said  the  last  word.  She 
shook,  too — it  might  be  with  nervousness,  or  with  cold. 

"  You  are  shivering,"  said  Blanche — "  I  should  not  have 
kept  you  there  so  long.     Undress,  and  come  in  to  me,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  said  Sybil,  eagerly ;  "I  am  not  so  brave  as  1 
look.     I  want  comfort  and  consolation,  Blanche." 

"  Of  course  you  do,  my  poor  little  white  dove,"  softly  said 
Miss  Cains — "  of  course  you  do." 

Sybil  slipped  off  her  clothes,  and  softly  crept  in  to  her  friend. 
She  was  shivering  still,  and  the  fond  and  warm  embrace  that  re- 
ceived her  did  her  good.  At  first  she  cried  bitterly,  then  she 
sobbed  a  little ;  and  when  both  sobs  and  weeping  were  over,  she 
kissed  Blanche,  and  blessed  her,  and  softly  fell  asleep. 

But  dreary,  long,  and  bitter,  and  wakeful,  was  that  night  to 
Blanche  Cains.  Sybil,  without  knowing  it, had  stung  her  to  the 
heart;  she  had  stirred  up  those  dark  waters,  which  sleep  in  many 
human  lives,  till  a  word,  a  look,  an  allusion,  bring  them  up  to 
the  surface,  and  with  them  a  dreary  past,  or  a  sullen  future. 


CHAPTER     XXXIV. 

Wearied  with  grief  and  weeping,  Sybil  slept  both  late  and 
eoundly.  When  she  awoke  Blanche  was  standing  by  her  side 
diessed,  and  looking  so  brilliant,  and  so  gay,  and  so  handsome, 
that  Sybil  was  fairly  dazzled. 


Sybil's  second  love.  257 

"  Well,  Miss  Kennedy,"  said  Blanche,  airily,  "  what  do  you 
bring  back  to  us  poor  mortals  from  the  ivory  gates  ? " 

"  Blanche,  you  are  splendidly  handsome,"  was  Sybil's  grave 
reply. 

"Aral?  " 

"  You  are  ;  you  look  triumphant  and  happy — quite  glo- 
rious ! " 

Miss  Cains  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  with  calm  compla- 
cency. "  Yes,  she  was  not  amiss,  and  she  confessed  it ;  but  it 
was  time  for  Sybil  to  rise — would  she  do  so,  and  let  her  friend 
help  her  to  dress  ? " 

Sybil  accepted  the  offer.  The  morning  was  calm  and  gray. 
The  last  frost  had  melted  from  the  earth,  and  spring  was  at 
hand.  The  wind  was  so  soft — a  balmy  breeze,  just  strong 
enough  to  dry  the  humid  soil,  but  impotent  to  check  the  young 
life  that  longed  to  come  forth  once  more. 

In  all,  save  its  promise  of  renewed  life,  Sybil  was  like  that 
day.  She  was  calm  and  mild,  and  she  looked  as  if  the  season 
of  her  tears  had  gone  by,  but  the  gladness  and  the  joy  of  spring 
were  not  with  her.  You  might  have  found  these,  indeed,  in 
the  countenance  of  Miss  Cains.  The  roses  on  her  cheeks  could 
have  vied  with  any  that  ever  blew.  Stars  were  not  brighter 
than  her  eyes,  and  as  for  her  mirth,  it  was  mischievous  and 
gleeful — "  kittenish,"  said  Sybil. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  said  Miss  Cains,  shaking  her  handsome 
head.  "  I  do  not  kuow  when  I  have  felt  so  light  and  so  gay. 
I  hope  nothing  is  going  to  happen — T  mean  nothing  sad,"  she 
added,  a  little  gravely ;  "  that  would  be  a  cruel  wakening, 
would  it  not,  Sybil  ?  " 

The  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  Denise  entered  the 
dining-room,  where  the  two  girls  waited  for  Mrs.  Mush.  She 
brought  a  letter  for  Blanche.  Miss  Cains  looked  nervous,  and 
turned  pale  as  she  took  it,  and  turned  it  in  her  hand. 

"  'Tis  from  England,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  do  believe  it  brings 
bad  tidings.     Denise  looked  like  fate,  did  she  not  ? " 

"  Read  it,  Blanche." 

"  Why,  so  I  will,  only  I  like  to  speculate  first.  I  wonder 
what  it  is  about.  Is  my  aunt  dead,  and  has  she  left  me  her 
long-promised  inheritance  ?  Why,  no — there  is  no  black  seal  to 
the  envelope,  you  see.  Then  I  suppose  it  is  from  some  kind 
friend  or  other,  offering  me  a  situation  of  thirty  pounds  a  year. 
Yes,  it  must  be  that." 


253  Sybil's  second  loye. 

Sybil  wound  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her  friend. 

"  You'll  not  take  it,  you  know  ! — you'll  never  leave  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not — not  even  if  you  marry,"  replied  Miss 
Cains,  with  some  little  bitterness  in  her  tone. 

Sybil's  thoughts  flew  to  the  sbip  that  was  now  tossing  on 
tbe  great  ocean,  and  a  cloud  came  over  her  face. 

"  I  shall  never  marry,"  she  said. 

"  "Well,  but  suppose  I  do,"  said  Miss  Cains.  "  It  is  not 
likely,  I  grant ;  but  still  the  man  may  be  found  who  will  be  in- 
sane enough  to  take  me." 

"  Then  if  you  marry,"  softly  said  Sybil,  "  I  shall  take  a  house 
near  you,  and  help  to  rear  and  pet  your  children,  my  darling. 
But  pray,  do  read  the  letter." 

Miss  Cains  tore  the  seal  open,  and  did  read  the  letter,  and 
that  twice  over  ;  after  which  she  handed  it  to  Sybil,  and  went 
to  the  window,  and  stood  looking  out  on  tbe  garden,  with  her 
back  turned  to  her  friend. 

Sybil,  too,  read  the  letter  twice,  but  once  sufficed  to  master 
its  contents.  It  was  from  a  cousin  of  Miss  Cains,  and  apprised 
her  that  their  aunt,  Miss  Mary  Cains,  was  lying  dangerously  ill, 
and  urgently  requested  ber  presence.  Beyond  this  the  letter 
said  little.  The  writer,  it  was  plain,  expected  compliance,  for 
she  only  spoke  of  not  delaying. 

Sybil's  heart  fell. 

"  You  must  go,"  she  said. 

"Tell  me  to  stay,  and  I  will!"  cried  Blanche,  embracing 
her  fondly. 

"  You  must  go  !  "  said  Sybil  again  ;  "  but,  oh  !  Blanche 
when  will  you  come  back  ?  " 

"  Ah,  there  it  is — once  I  go,  I  am  not  free  ;  but  my  darling, 
I  will  do  my  best,  I  will." 

"  I  know  you  will,"  said  Sybil,  "  and  I  suppose  you  must 
go  at  once." 

"  Oh  !  not  to-day,"  replied  Miss  Cains. 

Not  to-day  meant  to-morrow.  It  was  scarcely  in  Sybil's 
power  to  hide  her  distress.  This  second  parting  within  so  short 
a  time  grieved  and  saddened  her  inexpressibly  ;  but  she  was  too 
generous  not  to  struggle  against  feelings  which  could  only  add 
to  her  friend's  distress,  so  she  smiled  bravely  in  her  face,  and 
said  with  a  sort  of  cheerfulness, 

"  Tell  me  how  I  can  help  you." 

"  Well,  dear,  you  must  come  up  to  my  room,  and  we  shall 
see." 


Sybil's  second  love.  259 

They  did  go  up  to  Miss  Cains's  room,  and  ere  long  her 
trunk  was  emptied  on  the  floor,  and  Sybil's  arras  were  heaped 
•with  the  materials  of  a  good  day's  work. 

"  It  is  a  shame,  it  is  !  "  said  Miss  Cains,  remorsefully,  "  to 
make  you  slave  so  ;  but  you  see  I  shall  have  no  time  at  Aunt 
Cains's— shall  I  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not — besides,  it  makes  me  happy,  Blanche,  to 
work  for  vou." 

"I  do' believe  it  does,"  said  Miss  Cains,  her  blue  eyes  glis- 
tening. "  I  do  believe  that  of  all  good,  generous,  devoted  little 
creatures  you  are  peer.  But  I  shall  help  you,  you  know,"  she 
added,  reverting  to  the  question  of  work.  "  Shall  we  sit  up 
here  or  go  down  to  the  drawing-room?  We  could  soon  put  it 
out  of  sight,  you  know." 

"Let" us  sit  up  here,"  said  Sybil.  "Denise  shall  make  us 
a  fire." 

"And  Mrs.  Mush  will  not  be  prying,"  said  Blanche.  "I 
prefer  it." 

The  whole  of  that  day,  therefore,  they  sat  together  in  Miss 
Cains's  room,  and  Sybil  worked  for  her  friend,  who  was  too 
restless  herself  to  apply  her  needle  very  assiduously.  Twenty 
times  she  took  up  her  task,  and  flung  it  down  again  with  some 
impatient  word,  and  all  the  time  Sybil  sewed  steadily  on,  till 
dusk  came,  and  compelled  her  to  leave  off. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  as  she  folded  up  her  work,  "  do  come 
and  sit  by  me,  Blanche,  and  let  us  have  a  chat," 

"  We  must  go  down,"  said  Blanche,  "  or  Mrs.  Mush  will  be 
offended." 

"Mrs.  Mush  does  not  get  offended,"  impatiently  said  Sybil. 

"  My  darling,  Mrs.  Mush  is  one  of  the  powers  that  be,  do 
not  let  me  alienate  her  if  you  wish  me  to  return." 

Sybil  yielded  with  a  reluctant  sigh.  Why  was  she  to  be  de- 
prived of  this  her  last  evening  ?  Mrs.  Mush  was  very  brilliant, 
but  unsupportable  was  her  brilliancy  to  Sybil.  As  Miss  Cains's 
departure  drew  near,  it  took  gloomy  proportions,  and  also  be- 
came an  event  of  strange  magnitude.  She  had  felt  Mr.  Dcrraot's 
departure  more  deeply^  but  not  in  the  same  way.  By  going  he 
had  only  set  the  seal  on  an  inevitable  separation.  This  journey 
which  Blanche  was  going  to  take  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  the 
herald  of  some  unknown  calamity.  What  if  Miss  Mary  Cains 
had  a  lingering  illness,  and  insisted  on  keeping  her  beloved 
niece !  Could  Blanche  resist,  or  Sybil  complain  ?  And  if  she 
stayed  away,  what  was  Sybil's  life  after  this  I 


260  sybil's  second  love. 

Very  dreary,  therefore,  was  this  sepai'ation  ;  every  thing,  in- 
deed, was  dreary  now  in  Sybil's  life.  Every  thing  bore  the 
mien  of  a  calamity,  and  came  in  the  shape  and  aspect  of  a  woe. 
Happiness  is  too  often  like  a  string  of  orient  pearls — the  aggre- 
gate of  precious  units ;  but  break  the  silken  thread  that  binds 
them,  and  they  roll  away,  scattered  by  the  pitiless  hand  of  Fate, 
never  more  to  be  gathered  and  worn  by  the  happy  wearer. 
Thus  it  now  seemed  to  fare  with  Sybil.  The  precious 
thread — as  precious  as  any  Lachesis  ever  spun,  or  Atropos  ever 
tore  as  uadcr — was  broken,  and  one  by  one  her  pearls  left  her, 
poor,  forsaken,  and  alone.  Thus,  at  least,  she  deemed  it,  dark- 
ening her  lot  by  voluntary  exaggeration,  as  it  is  the  fashion  of 
the  young. 

Miss  Cains  was  to  leave  the  next  morning, 'so  she  retired 
early,  in  order  to  lose  none  of  her  slumbers.  But  Sybil  could 
not  sleep,  her  heart  was  too  full;  besides,  the  wind  was  moaning 
fearfully.  A  gale  had  risen  with  sunset,  and  now  lorded  it  with 
might  and  main.  It  was  a  terrible  night  at  sea.  Ah  !  how  did 
it  fare  with  the  Mountain  Fairy  ?  Miss  Cains  quarrelled  with 
Sybil's  pale  face  when  she  came  down. 

"  You  have  not  been  sleeping  ?  "  she  said,  severely. 

"  No,  I  could  not  for  the  wind — for  the  gale,  I  should  say." 

"  I  heard  nothing.     "Was  it  a  gale  ? " 

Miss  Cains  could  put  the  question,  for  the  morning  was  re- 
markably calm. 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  gale,"  said  Sybil. 

"  I  suppose  there  will  be  a  swell,"  said  Miss  Cains,  with  a 
little  shiver,  "  and  I  always  am  so  ill." 

She  gave  her  breakfast  cup  a  forlorn  look,  that  made  Mrs, 
Mush  laugh. 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Mush,"  ruefully  said  Blanche,  "  I  consider 
this  no  joke.  I  suffer  mental  agonies  on  board — not  physical, 
mind — but  mental.  Visions  of  suicide  haunt  me — now,  that  is 
not  pleasant,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  my  dear ;  but  take  your  breakfast  all  the 
same." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Cains  philosophically,  "  of  course  I  must. 
And  after  breakfast  comes  the  parting,  eh  !  Sybil  ?  " 

This  was  spoken  with  a  little  sigh  ;  but  Sybil  could  not  sigh 
— her  heart  was  too  full  for  this  relief. 

Breakfast  was  scarcely  over,  when  the  ladies  were  informed 
that  the  carriage,  which  was  to  convey  Miss  Cains  away,  was  at 


sybil's  second  love.  201 

the  door.  There  had  been  some  talk  of  Sybil  and  Mrs.  Mush 
accompanying  her,  but  this  Blanche  successfully  resisted.  The 
distance  was  too  great,  and  Sybil  had  a  slight  cold — she  would 
not  hear  of  it,  and  her  will  at  length  prevailed. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  time  for  me  to  go,"  said  Miss  Cains,  rising. 

Sybil  rose  too. 

"  Let  us  have  a  turn  in  the  garden  first,"  she  said. 

Blanche  nodded  assent,  and  they  went  out  together  arm-in- 
arm. The  morning  was  mild,  but  dull  and  cheerless.  The  sun 
was  hidden  in  gray  clouds,  and  now  and  then  shot  forth  a  cold, 
lurid  ray,  that  vanished  almost  as  soon  as  seen.  The  garden 
paths  were  strewn  with  tokens  of  the  night's  tempest.  Young 
green  branches,  that  would  never  bud  forth  into  leaf,  shrubs  that 
had  been  stripped  and  scattered  by  the  wind,  met  them  on  every 
side;  but  saddest  of  all  was  a  shattered  nest,  around  which  a 
bird  flew  with  a  plaintive  cry  and  fluttering  wings.  The  young 
unfledged  bird  had  been  killed  by  the  fall  which  had  spared  the 
parent. 

Sybil  felt  sick  and  faint,  and  turned  away  with  a  shudder. 
Even  Miss  Cains,  albeit  not  a  sensitive  young  lady,  said,  ner- 
vously, 

"  I  wish  that  bird  would  not  scream  so." 

"  Is  it  an  omen?"  said  Sybil,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Nonsense  !     An  omen  of  what  ? " 

Sybil  did  not  answer.  They  had  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
garden  and  back,  and  reached  the  house  once  more. 

"Let  us  take  another  turn,"  she  said,  "you  have  time 
enough." 

Blanche  looked  at  her  watch,  and  said  yes,  she  had  time. 
When  they  had  once  more  reached  the  end  of  the  garden,  Sybil 
spoke. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  feel  this  parting  so  terribly,  Blanche. 
I  know  you  will  come  back — and  yet  there  is  something  that  dins 
and  murmurs  in  my  car  that  you  will  not." 

"  Shall  I  take  a  vow  ? "  asked  Miss  Cains,  with  much  gravity. 
"  Vows,  you  know,  do  what  nothing  else  can." 

Sybil  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  that  will  not  do,"  she  said  ;  "  the  vow  could  only  bind 
your  will,  which  I  do  not  doubt.  It  does  not  bind  Fate,  or,  to 
speak  in  more  Christian  fashion,  circumstances." 

They  had  reached  the  house  again,  and  Sybil  looked  at  it 
with  strange,  wistful  eyes. 


262  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Oh  !  if  I  could  keep  you  there,"  she  said,  passionately. 
"  If  I  could  be  sure  of  you  in  these  four  walls  !  " 

Blanche  was  moved,  and  stooping,  kissed  the  flushed  face 
that  was  half  raised  to  hers. 

"  I  do  not  think  there  ever  was  a  friendship  like  ours,"  cried 
Sybil,  ardently  ;  "  was  there,  Blanche  ?  I  am  sure  it  is  beyond 
the  love  of  sisters !  Oh  !  yes,  far  beyond  it.  Oh  !  if  I  were  but 
my  own  mistress,  we  should  never  part.  Blanche,  we  sball  live 
together  when  I  am  of  age,  and  you  shall  be  the  fair  one,  and  I 
the  dark  one,  for  we  shall  dress  alike." 

Blauche  laughed. 

"  If  you  laugh,  I  shall  get  affronted ! "  said  Sybil,  a  little 
hotly. 

"  Which  Heaven  forbid  !  And  now,  my  dear,  shall  we  not 
part?" 

Sybil  frowned,  and  despotically  replied, 

"  No." 

"  Well,  but  what  shall  we  do,  dear  ? " 

"  Take  another  turn,  and  then  we  shall  see." 

Miss  Cains  looked  at  her  watch  again. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  your  watch  ? "  jealously  asked  Sybil. 

"  To  see  the  time." 

"  You  are  in  a  mighty  hurry  to  leave  me." 

"  No,  dear,  but  Time  is.  We  shall  take  another  turn,  how- 
ever." 

Again  they  went  to  the  end  of  the  garden  ;  but  Sybil's  tears 
flowed  the  whole  time. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Blanche,  "  we  should  have  parted  at  once." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Sybil,  "  we  should  indeed." 

When  they  reached  the  house  again,  they  entered  it,  went 
through  the  cloister,  and  came  out  at  the  gates  where  the  car- 
riage was  waiting. 

"And  now  we  part!"  said  Miss  Cains,  hurriedly.  "Good- 
by,  Mrs.  Mush  ;  good-by,  Sybil — give  me  a  kiss,  and  let  it  be 
over  ! " 

"  Yes,  now  we  part — and  we  part  forever  ! "  sobbed  Sybil. 
"  Shall  I,  must  I  never  see  you  again,  Blanche  ?     Oh  !  why — 
why  do  you  leave  me  ?" 

She  spoke  in  piteous  accents,  she  clung  to  her  friend  with  a 
convulsive  and  entreatinff  embrace. 

Miss  Cains  turned  ashy  pale,  and  averted  her  face,  and 
trembling,  tried  to  disengage  herself. 


SYBIL  S 


'S  SECOND  LOVE.  2G3 


"  Mrs.  Mush,  take  her  away,"  she  implored.  _  "  Come,  dar- 
ling, let  me  go.  I  tell  you  that  unless  I  die  I  will  come  back 
to  you.     There,  one  kiss,  and  good-by."  ■ 

Mrs.  Mush  came  forward  and  gently  separated  them.  In- 
deed, Sybil,  though  weeping  pitifully,  offered  no  resistance. 
Miss  Cains  hurried  into  the  carriage,  and  shut  the  door  quickly, 
but  at  once  looked  out  at  Sybil.  "Raising  her  veil,  she  showed 
her  once  more  the  fair  face  she  loved  so  dearly,  and  Sybil,  look- 
ing at  it,  thought : 

"  I  shall  never  see  her  again  ! — never  !  " 

That  sad  little  word  still  echoed  in  her  heart  as  the  carriage 
drove  away.  And  who  knows,  Sybil,  perhaps,  you  have  indeed 
seen  your  last  of  the  friend  of  your  youth  ?  Perhaps  something 
more  cruel  than  death — more  pitiless  than  space  or  time — shall 
henceforth  divide  you  ! 


-+*+- 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

Ox  the  very  day  of  Miss  Cains's  departure  from  Saint  Vin- 
cent, Miss  Glyn  came  and  took  possession  of  her  new  home,  and 
sent  word  to  her  cousin  and  her  niece  that  she  should  be  very 
happy  to  see  them.  Sybil,  who  was  languidly  sitting  with  a 
book  in  her  lap,  and  her  feet  on  the  fender,  looked  up,  and 
seemed  interested. 

"  Let  us  go  and  see  aunt  to-day,  Mrs.  Mush,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Mush  asked  for  no  better ;  so  they  got  ready,  and  went. 
A  beautiful,  solitary  road,  passing  between  stately  oaks,  with 
wild-looking  slopes  on  either  side,  where  sheep  were  scattered 
midst  the  furze,  led  them  to  the  lonely  brick  house  which  Miss 
Glyn  had  elected  for  her  home.  About  this  dwelling  itself 
there  was  no  beauty ;  its  garden  was  rude  and  old-fashioned, 
but  the  savage  look  of  the  surrounding  landscape  half-charmed, 
half-awed  Sybil's  heart.  A  long,  lonely  moor,  a  brawling  river, 
tumbling  rudely  midst  rocks  and  stones,  and  in  the  distance 
some  Celtic  ruins,  which,  Sybil  knew  well,  bounded  Miss  Glyn's 
horizon.  It  was  a  strange  place  for  business,  to  say  the  least 
of  it. 

Miss  Glyn  came  forth  to  meet  them. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Mush,"  she  said,  with  a  certain 
formality — "  why,  Sybil,  how  pale  you  are  !" 


264  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Miss  Cains  went  off  this  morning,"  replied  Sybil,  with  a 
quivering  lip — "  her  aunt  is  very  ill." 

"  I  ana  heartily  glad  of  it ! "  said  Miss  Glyn,  not  taking  time 
to  think  to  which  portion  of  Sybil's  speech  her  answer  gram- 
matically referred — "  I  never  was  better  pleased  in  my  life  ;  and 
I  hope  Miss  Cains  will  never  enter  my  brother-in-law's  house 
again  ! " 

Tears  rushed  to  Sybil's  eyes,  and  she  uttered  a  reproachful, 
"  Oh  !  aunt." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  recklessly  said  Miss  Glyn,  "  that  is  my 
way — I  never  get  over  a  dislike — never  ! " 

There  was  a  candid  want  of  reasoning  in  this  declaration, 
which  mollified  Sybil.  Of  course,  if  her  aunt  invoked  prejudice, 
and  took  her  stand  thereon,  argument  was  at  an  end.  So  she 
did  her  best  to  forgive  Miss  Glyn's  want  of  reason,  and  at  once 
changed  the  subject  by  looking  around  the  half-empty  parlor  in 
which  they  stood,  and  saying,  with  a  sigh  : 

"  How  unsettled  you  are  still !  " 

"  My  dear,  I  am  in  my  element ;  you  have  not  seen  my 
counting-house,  have  you  ? — why,  of  course  not ;  come  this  way 
— I  saw  to  that  first." 

She  led  them  into  the  next  apartment ;  a  high  desk,  a  high 
stool,  a  bureau,  with  formidable  drawers,  ledgers,  inkstands,  and 
all  the  appurtenances  of  business,  graced  this  room,  which  Miss 
Glyn  surveyed  with  infinite  complacency. 

"  This  is  my  boudoir"  she  said,  "  and  here,  Sybil,  you  will 
find  me  at  my  fancy  work  whenever  you  come  to  see  me." 

Sybil  looked  dismayed. 

"  Aunt,"  she  cried,  "  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? " 

"  My  dear,  it  would  be  no  use  telling  you — you  have  no 
sort  of  talent  for  business  ;  even  Mrs.  Mush  will  not  bo  affronted 
if  I  say  that  business  is  not  in  her  way." 

Mrs.  Mush,  who  looked  unusually  grave  and  pensive,  nodded, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  Oh !  of  course  not ;  "  but  not  one  word  did 
she  utter. 

"You  see,"  resumed  Miss  Glyn,  who  was  itching  to  tell 
them  all  the  time,  "the  mistake  of  modern  commerce  is  unity  ; 
we  shall  never  be  right  till  we  go  back  to  the  plan  of  the  middle 
ages  when  merchants  were  princes ;  they  ruled  cities,  they  were 
ambassadors — they  were  virtually  masters  of  Europe.  Now  all 
that  is  altered,  thanks,  I  firmly  believe,  to  the  combined  action 
of  bankers  and  the  aristocracy.     The   bankers  have  got  the 


sybil's  second  love.  265 

power — I  mean  the  moneyed  power — which  belongs  to  com- 
merce, and  not  to  them.  What  is  a  banker  ? — just  tell  me  that. 
A  banker  is  a  thief,"  added  Miss  Glyn,  with  sudden  energy ; 
"  he  makes  money,  and  does  not  earn  it — his  fortune  does  not 
mean  honest  labor  ;  but  I  am  taking  you  beyond  your  depth," 
she  added,  with  a  calm  smile  at  her  own  absurdity — "  however, 
this  you  can  understand  :  I  mean  to  deal  not  in  one  thing,  but 
in  many  things.  Rape-seed  I  shall  grow  and  sell ;  herrings  I 
shall  cure  and  sell,  too  ;  and  butter  I  shall  salt  and  sell ;  and  I 
shall  deal  in  that  not  appreciated,  though  most  invaluable  ma- 
nure, sea-weed.  We  import  guano,"  added  Miss  Glyn,  with 
great  contempt,  "  and  we  neglect  one  of  the  most  powerful  fer- 
tilizing agents,  sea-weed — absurd !  " 

Sybil  looked  at  her  aunt,  then  at  Mrs.  Mush,  who  was  look- 
ing more  and  more  grave,  and  she  knew  not  what  to  think, 
much  less  what  to  say,  so  she  was  silent. 

"  Suppose  we  have  a  cup  of  tea  here  ? "  suggested  Miss  Glyn, 
who  was  evidently  smitten  with  the  charms  of  her  counting- 
house — "  yes,  we  will.     Rose,  bring  the  tea-things  here." 

The  order  was  obeyed,  and  a  most  comfortless  meal,  to 
Sybil's  seeming,  followed.  The  tea,  the  cream,  the  toast  were 
excellent  indeed,  but  Miss  Kennedy  felt  frozen  out  of  all  cheer- 
fulness by  these  tall  ledgers,  and  that  grim  desk,  and  that  deep- 
looking  bureau.  Mrs.  Mush's  silence,  too,  struck  her  as  some- 
thing ominous  and  strange,  and  she  was  glad  when  evening 
came,  and  her  companion  rising,  said  it  was  time  for  them  to  be 
going.  Miss  Glyn  did  not  detain  them.  It  was  plain  that  her 
mind  was  too  full  of  business  for  hospitality  to  rule  it. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  to  Sybil,  as  she  gave  her  a  parting  kiss, 
"  you  must  not  come  to  me  for  a  week,  please.  After  that 
time  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you  ;  but  until  then  I  shall  bo 
too  busy  to  see  anybody — so  good-night,  and  good-by." 

"  Good-night,  aunt,"  said  Sybil,  rather  hurt.  Indeed,  she 
was  so  far  displeased,  that  she  spoke  to  Mrs.  Mush  on  the  sub- 
ject. 

"  Now  that  is  unkind  of  aunt,"  she  said,  warmly  ;  "  I  should 
have  liked  to  be  of  use  to  her,  and  she  treats  me  like  a  stranger." 

"Poor  Miss  Glyn  !"  said  Mrs.  Mush,  very  sadly — "did  you 
hear  her  ?  — why,   Sybil,  she  is  going  straight   on  to  ruin — 
rushing  upon  it.     And  the  worst  is,  that  if  one  were  to  say  a 
word  to  her,  she  would  only  rush  the  faster." 
12 


266  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Then — then  you  think  her  business  will  not  do?"  faltered 
Sybil. 

"  Think  ! — I  am  sure  of  it,  child ;  but  there  is  no  help  for 
it," 

At  first  Sybil  was  much  troubled,  then  it  occurred  to  her 
that  Mrs.  Mush  might  be  mistaken  ;  then,  with  the  lightness  of 
youth  for  all  that  concerns  business,  she  drove  the  subject  from 
her  mind,  and  reverted  to  her  own  weighty  troubles.  She  had 
little  else  to  think  of  that  whole  week,  for  Miss  Cains  did  not 
keep  her  promise,  or,  at  least,  no  letter  from  her  cheered  Sybil. 
Mr.  Kennedy  never  wrote,  so  Sybil  had  little  else  to  think  of 
besides  her  loss,  and  Blanche's  strange  silence. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  assigned  by  Miss  Glyn,  that  lady 
sent  a  message  to  Mrs.  Mush,  requiring  her  presence  that  same 
evening,  and  exonerating  Sybil  -from  coming.  Mrs.  Mush,  who 
had  heard  that  Rose,  Miss  Glyn's  maid,  was  strongly  suspected, 
of  a  flirtation,  guessed  why  she  was  wanted,  and  why  Sybil  was 
not,  and  answered  Sybil's  perplexed  look  of  inquiry  with  a  mys- 
terious smile. 

"  But  why  must  I  stay  ? "  asked  Sybil — "  I  feel  so  dull,  Mrs. 
Mush." 

"My  dear,  your  aunt  is  a  most  discreet  person — moreover 
she  is  convinced  you  are  a  mere  baby,  so  you  must  remain  be 
hind." 

"Very  well,"  said  Sybil,  sadly. 

"  I  shall  not  be  long,"  promised  Mrs.  Mush,  and  away  she 
went. 

But  promises  not  to  be  long  seem  made  to  be  broken. 
There  was  much  to  say  in  Mrs.  Mush's  favor.  She  found  Miss 
Glyn  in  a  toweling  rage  in  the  counting-house,  sitting  on  the 
high  stool,  now  converted  into  a  judicial  bench,  and  the  delin- 
quent Rose  standing  in  tears  before  her.  It  was  a  flirtation — 
it  was  worse — said  Miss  Glyn  ;  Mrs.  Mush  hoped  not,  and  ques- 
tioned Rose,  and  tried  to  calm  her  mistress;  and  still  time 
passed,  and  Sybil  remained  alone. 

There  are  clays  and  hours  when  solitude  is  a  burden  and  a 
pain.  Other  days  there  are,  indeed,  when  there  is  enchantment 
in  her  aspect.  Days  of  hope  or  desire,  when  the  green  wood, 
the  wild  shore,  the  barren  heath,  or  the  misty  mountain-side 
arc  a  delight  and  a  passion,  when  the  dearest  presence  brings 
weariness,  and  no  voice  is  so  sweet  as  the  silence  through  which 
Nature  speaks.     But,  as  we  said,  there  are  also  days  and  hours 


svbil's  second  love.  2G7 

wheu  solitude  is  a  trouble  and  a  torment,  and  such  a  day  and 
such  an  hour  were  these  to  Sybil. 

Soon  after  Mrs.  Mush  left  it  began  to  rain;  no  drizzle  was 
this,  but  a  long,  sustained  shower,  that  beat  against  the  window- 
panes,  and  made  Sybil  feel  nervous  and  miserable.  She  rose  to 
close  the  shutters  herself ;  as  she  opened  the  window,  a  gust  of 
stormy  wind  came  in,  covering  her  face  with  rain,  and  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  drenched  landscape,  gleaming  wet,  and  shivering 
through  the  dark  night.  Then  it  vanished,  for  as  she  undid  the 
hasp,  the  shutters  flew  to  with  a  crash,  and  Sybil  hastily  closed 
the  window  and  went  back  to  the  lire.  She  felt  very  wretched, 
and  the  voices  of  the  servants,  laughing  in  the  kitchen  below, 
added  to  her  misery.  They  were  gay  and  happy,  and  Sybil  en- 
vied them. 

"  I  wish  Mrs.  Mush  would  come  back,"  she  thought  querul- 
ously. 

She  took  up  a  book,  but  she  could  not  read ;  she  took  up 
her  work,  but  she  could  not  sew.  So  she  sat  listlessly,  and 
looked  at  the  fire.  But  as  she  sat  by  that  lonely  hearth,  the 
little  mistress  of  the  house  felt  that  she  was  not  meant  for  soli- 
tude. Her  heart  ached  at  all  these  vacant  places  which  she  saw 
and  filled  up  with  her  mind's  eye.  Here  her  aunt,  her  father, 
Mr.  Derinot,  and  Blanche  had  sat  together,  or  in  turns  ;  and  now 
they  were  gone,  scattered,  to  meet  no  more,  perhaps,  and  no 
one  wrote  to  her,  and  she  felt  wretched  indeed. 

"And  yet  that  is  my  lot,"  thought  Sybil  sadly,  "for  of 
course  I  shall  not  marry,  so  I  shall  grow  old  alone;  but  perhaps 
dear  Blanche  will  not  marry  either.  And  then  we  could  be  to- 
gether— two  old  maids,  but  not  unamiable  or  censorious." 

Another  thought  followed  on  this — Sybil  saw  a  stormy  sea, 
a  ship  tossed  by  the  seething  waves ;  then  she  started  up, 
trembling  with  grief  and  pain,  and,  to  drown  the  sound  of  the 
gusty  wind,  she  went  to  her  piano,  opened  it,  and  played  the 
merriest  Irish  tune  she  could  think  of.  But  there  is  always  a 
plaintive  note  in  the  gayest  Irish  music — a  sound  of  lament 
which  easily  deepens  into  a  wail.  This  Irish  air,  though  merry, 
was  wild,  and  wildness  is  akin  to  sorrow.  Every  time  Sybil 
came  back  to  this  sad  note,  she  lingered  over  it,  until  it  swelled 
into  a  dirge  so  sad  and  lamentable,  that  she  rose  frightened],  and 
would  play  no  more.  As  she  turned  from  the  instrument,  she 
stood  still,  mute,  breathless,  awestruck.  The  door  which  she 
faced  had   opened,   and,   standing  on   its  threshold,  with    tho 


268  sybil's  second  love. 

gloom  behind  him,  she  saw  Mr.  Dermot.  He  was  haggard  and 
pale,  and  dripping,  as  if  the  sea-waves  had  that  moment  cast  him 
forth. 

Never  did  Sybil  forget  the  passionate  joy  of  that  moment. 
At  a  glance  she  saw  it  all.  Mr.  Dermot  was  not  gone — he  was 
not  going.  He  had  come  back  once  more.  She  sprang  toward 
him,  welcome  in  her  whole  aspect. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  glad,  very  glad  to  see  you !  "  she  cried. 

Her  eyes  beamed,  her  lips  quivered,  and  her  flushed  face 
was  radiant  with  happiness  and  delight.  All  this  Mr.  Dermot 
saw,  but  vaguely  and  coldly.  He  went  to  the  fire,  took  a  chair, 
and  began  drying  himself. 

"  Are  you — are  you  ill  ? "  faltered  Sybil,  frightened  at  his 
face. 

"  No,  thank  you — only  wet." 

"  You  are  not  going  away  again  ? "  she  half-whispered. 

Their  eyes  met.  He  was  struck  with  her  breathless  look, 
but  he  did  not  understand  it. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  gravely — "  I  am  not." 

Joy,  tumultuous  in  its  excess,  filled  Sybil's  heart.  She  forgot 
her  struggles,  her  boasted  victory,  now  lost  forever;  she  was 
only  conscious  of  exquisite  bliss ;  but  she  did  not  dare  to  speak 
— she  looked  at  the  tire,  and  tried  to  still  the  beatings  of  her 
heart.  A  few  minutes  passed  thus.  "When  Sybil  shyly  looked 
up  at  Mr.  Dermot,  she  was  struck  with  the  settled  gloom  of  his 
looks.  Suddenly  her  great  joy  was  stilled,  and  slowly  her  heart 
sank  within  her  as  she  watched  him.  There  was  somethiuor  in 
that  rio-id  countenance  which  her  thoughts  called  "  ominous." 
An  omen  means  a  sign  of  good  or  of  evil,  but  custom  prefers  the 
sad  significance  of  this  word  to  its  happier  meaning.  It  did  not 
occur  to  Sybil  that  Mr.  Dermot  was  the  bearer  of  happy  tidings. 
She  read  trouble  and  woe  in  the  look  of  his  gray  eye,  and  every 
time  he  moved,  or  seemed  about  to  speak,  her  heart  leaped  up 
within  her. 

"  I  thought — we  thought  you  were  gone  to  Canada,"  she 
said  at  leno-th. 

"I  was  to  go,  but  I  shall  not  go  now." 

Sybil  turned  crimson,  and  looked  down,  and  again  felt  that 
she  was  trembling  with  guilty  joy  at  this  confirmation  ;  but  he 
made  a  motion.  She  thought  he  was  going  to  speak,  and  up 
jumped  her  heart  agairt.  He  was  silent,  and  Sybil's  emotion 
subsided.     Perhaps  nothing  had  happened,  after  all ! 


sybil's  second  love.  2G9 

"  You  are  very  wet,"  she  said,  timidly — "  it  is  raining  hard." 

He  shivered  as  he  bent  over  the  fire,  and  Sybil  thought  that 
he  looked  very  cold  and  ill. 

"  Pray  take  something  hot,"  she  said,  with  her  hand  on  the 
bell,  but  his  hand  laid  on  her  arm  checked  her. 

Sybil  started.  Mr.  Dermot  looked  very  cold,  but  his  hand 
felt  like  hot  iron  through  her  muslin  sleeve. 

"  You  are  feverish,"  she  said. 

"  I  believe  I  am,  but  that  is  nothing." 

Svbil  felt  sick  and  faint.  If  that  -was  nothing,  there  was 
something  then.  She  trembled,  and  almost  longed  to  cry : 
"Tell  me  all — I  know  it  is  dreadful,  but  tell  me  all  at  once." 

And  it  was  as  if  Mr.  Dermot  read  the  meaning  of  her  anx- 
ious face,  and  wistful  eye,  for  he  looked  at  her  in  a  way  so  sad,  so 
penetrating,  and  so  strange,  that  Sybil's  full  heart  overflowed. 

"  Oh  !  "what  is  it,  Mr."  Dermot  I "  she  entreated — "  oh  !  tell 
me,  what  is  it  ? " 

"  I  bring  sad  news,  Sybil." 

Sybil  rose  to  her  feet,  and  clasped  her  hands  wildly. 

"  My  father  is  ill  ?  "  she  cried,  and  her  look  added — "  he  is 
dead." 

Mr.  Dermot  understood  her,  for  he  replied  quickly  : 

"  He  is  alive — and  well,"  he  added,  after  a  pause. 

A  deep  sigh  showed  Sybil's  relief. 

"  No,  it  is  not  that,"  resumed  Mr.  Dermot,  recalling  her  to 
the  bad  tidings  she  had  forgotten. 

Sybil  sat  down  again,  sobered  at  once. 

"  He  has  lost  money — he  is  insolvent,  perhaps?"  and  her 
voice  faltered  as  there  passed  before  her  the  dismal  and  ghastly 
spectre,  doubly  drear  to  a  merchant's  daughter  of  commercial 
ruin. 

"No,  Sybil,  it  is  not  that  either,"  sadly  said  Mr.  Dermot; 
"  it  is  worse — far  worse  for  you." 

Was  her  father  guilt  v  ?     She  gave  him  a  scared  look. 

"  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said,  nervously  turning  and  twisting  her 
little  fingers  together,  "  you  torture  me — better  kill  me,  and  put 
me  out  of  my  pain." 

"  I  will,  Sybil — your  father  is  married." 

"  Married  ! "  she  said,  half  smiling — "  married  !  " 

Stupor  was  her  first  feeling.  Then  she  remembered  the 
fondness,  the  caresses,  the  adoration,  which  had  been  hers  for 
years — all  rushed  back  to  her  in  one  moment,  and  with  them 


270  sybil's  second  love. 

the  thought  of  this  strange  woman,  now  standing  forever  be- 
tween her  and  her  father's  love.  She  raised  her  hands  to  her 
face,  and  cried  till  the  tears  ran  through  hex  fingers.  Mr.  Der- 
ruot  let  her  Aveep  unchecked.  Those  tears  would  do  her  good, 
and  he  knew  it.  He  let  her  weep,  and  all  the  time  he  looked  at 
the  fire  with  a  gloomy,  forbidding  stare. 

"  Married  !  "  at  length  said  Sybil,  looking  up.  "  Mr.  Der- 
mot,  have  you  said  it — have  I  heard  you  rightly  ?  I  thought 
you  were  gone  to  Canada — is  it  true  that  you  are  sitting 
there  talking  to  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,"  he  replied,  "  and  it  is  true  that  your  father  is 
married  ;  and  you  will  need  a  friend,  my  poor  little  Sybil,  and 
friend  and  brother  I  will  be  to  you." 

lie  stretched  forth  his  hand,  as  if  to  draw  her  to  his  side 
and  shield  her  from  some  unknown  danger.     But  Sybil  drew 
back,  and  started  to  her  feet,  frightened,  pale,  and  breathless. 
"  There  is  more,"  she  cried ;  "  tell  me  all — tell  me  all !  " 
"  Ay,  there  is  more  indeed,"  said  he,  rising  and  standing 
before  her.     "  You  did  not  ask  Avho  was  your  father's  wife  ? " 
"  No,"  she  answered  faintly.     "  Tell  me." 
"  Blanche  Cains." 

Sybil's  eyes  flashed ;  she  drew  herself  up. 
"  That's  not  true,"  she  cried ;  "  you  always  hated  her,  and 
now  you  slander  her,  Mr.  Dermot.  .  It  is  not  true." 

Sybil  looked  very  handsome  as  she  stood  thus  and  there — 
flushed,  brilliant,  and  indignant.  But  little  cared  Mr.  Dermot 
for  any  woman's  beauty  then. 

"  'Tis  true,"  he  said  doggedly,  and  with  a  look  so  severe 
and  stern,  that  it  carried  conviction  with  it. 

Sybil  felt  that  her  blood  turned  cold  and  curdled  within 
her.  The  shock  which  her  lover's  treachery  had  begun  was 
consummated  by  this  deeper  and  darker  treason  of  her  friend. 
Something  then  died  Avithin  her  Avhich  was  to  know  no  second 
birth — a  faith,  a  trust,  a  belief  in  others,  which  there  once  had 
been,  and  which  were  to  be  no  more.  She  looked  at  Mr.  Der- 
mot with  tearless  eyes  and  quivering  lips,  but  she  saw  him 
not.  She  saw  nothing  but  the  Avreck  and  miserable  ruin  of 
the  great  passion  of  her  life.  Her  friend  was  perfidious.  The 
heart  of  her  heart  was  untrue.  Her  second  self  Avas  false  to 
its  other  half.  The  world  Avas  at  an  end  —  for  this  treason 
of  a  friend  filled  it  with  the  trouble,  confusion,  and  utter 
darkness  of  earth's  aAvful  days. 


sybil's  second  love.  271 

"  But  it  cannot  be  ! "  she  cried,  rallying  suddenly  with  a 
flash  of  hope ;  "  he  disliked  Blanche,  you  know  he  did — he 
could  not  hear  her." 

*'  He  disliked  her,  did  he !  "  said  Mr.  Dermot,  with  a  stern 
smile ;  "  and  he  left  this  house  to  marry  her,  and  she  joined 
him  ten  days  hack  to  marry  him.  Oh  !  yes,  he  hated  her, 
Sybil,  and  I  have  no  doubt  she  hated  him  too." 

He  laughed.  But  Sybil's  arms  fell  down  loosely  by  her 
side.  Her  tears  could  not  flow  now,  but  when  she  read  the 
past,  when  she  saw  in  it  how  these  two,  her  father  and  her 
friend,  had  united  to  deceive  her  fond,  faithful  trust,  she  felt 
a  passion  of  despair,  which  fouud  its  vent  in  words. 

"  And  so  it  was  all  false  !"  she  cried,  "all  false.  He  liked 
her  all  along,  and  all  along,  too,  she  whom  I  loved  as  I  loved 
my  life,  meant  to  supplant  me  in  my  father's  love.  I  took  her 
in,  poor  and  forsaken  ;  I  defended  her  against  every  one  and 
every  thing,  and  she  meant  to  betray  me,  and  she  is  now 
my  father's  wife,  and  the  mistress  of  this  house." 

"  And  she  will  wear  satin,  and  velvet,  and  diamonds," 
said  Mr.  Dermot,  with  a  curling  lip,  "  and  think  what  a  little 
foolish  Sybil  that  was  who  gave  her  the  chance  and  let  her  in  ! " 

Sybil  had  thrown  herself  on  the  sofa  and  buried  her  face  in 
its  velvet  cushion ;  she  now  looked  up,  with  eyes  that  burned 
angrily  in  her  pale  face.  She  was  in  that  mood  of  grief,  one  of 
its  bitterest,  when  the  heart  scorns  the  relief  of  tears  and  lam- 
entations, and  longs  for  reveuge,  which  oftener  falls  on  the 
innocent  than  on  the  guilty. 

"  Yes,  you  triumph  over  me,"  she  cried,  "  for  you  hated  her 
as  much  as  I  loved  her,  and  that  is  why  you  came  here  to  give 
me  this  stab,  and  to  laugu  at  me  in  my  misery.  Triumph  if 
you  will.  AVhat  is  it  to  you  if  she  has  deceived  me  ? — what  is 
it  to  you  if  she  is  my  father's  wife,  and,  as  you  say,  will  wear 
velvet  and  diamonds?" 

Her  looks,  her  tone  stung  him.  Anger,  steady  and  sure,  not 
fitful,  like  hers,  rose  to  his  brow,  and  Milled  there. 

"You  ask  what  it  is  to  me,  Miss  Kennedy,"  he  replied — 
"why,  simply  this  :  she  was  your  friend,  but  she  was  my  mis- 
tress, honored  and  beloved.  She  is  your  father's  wife — she  was 
to  have  been  mine." 

■  Sybil  turned  ashy  pale.  In  one  moment  memory  brought 
back  a  host  of  images  so  shameful,  so  humiliating,  so  torment- 
ing, that  she  could  have  died  gladly  to  escape  them.     Oh  !  in- 


272  sybil's  second  love. 

supportable  remembrance,  it  was  the  lover  of  Blanche  Caina 
that  she  had  loved  ! — it  was  to  his  mistress  that  she  had  told 
it ! — it  was  in  her  arms  that  she  had  sobbed  her  grief  to 
sleep  !     Sybil  turned  wild  and  desperate. 

"  Do  you  want  to  kill  me  ? "  she  cried.  "  What  have  I  done 
to  you  that  you  should  treat  me  so  ? — -what  have  I  done?" 

"  And  what  have  I  done  ? "  he  asked,  indignantly.  "  I  am 
the  bearer,  not  the  author  of  evil  tidings  ;  you  questioned  my 
right  to  call  to  account  this  most  perfidious  of  women,  and  I 
told  you  the  right  she  herself  gave  me  three  years  back.  How 
and  why  does  this  offend  you?" 

"  True,"  bitterly  said  Sybil,  "  why  should  the  falsehood,  dis- 
sembling, and  treachery,  which  for  the  last  year  have  surrounded 
me,  offend  me  ?  My  father's  conduct  I  will  not'censure- — he  is 
my  father  after  all,  and  not  accountable  to  his  child.  But  you 
will  allow  me  to  ask  why  you,  sir,  who  entered  this  house 
under  an  assumed  character,  also  chose  to  be  so  silent  concern- 
ing the  relation  in  which  you  stood  to  my  father's  guest,  and 
my  friend !  " 

She  spoke  in  a  bitter,  taunting  tone,  that  stung  him  to  the 
quick. 

"  Miss  Kennedy,"  he  said,  trying  to  curb  down  his  auger, 
but  the  thick  veins  in  his  forehead  swelling,  "you  have  no  prac- 
tical experience  of  life,  and  I  suppose  I  must  excuse  you.  A 
man  scarcely  takes  a  girl  for  his  confidant  in  these  matters." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  wanted  to  be  yours  ?  "  cried 
Sybil,  firing  with  indignation — "  who  asked  for  your  confi- 
dence ?  But  were  you  not  bound  to  tell  my  father  ? — you  were, 
sir — you  know  you  were  !  " 

"  I  repeat  it,  Miss  Kennedy,  you  have  no  practical  expe- 
rience of  life.  Was  this  secret  mine  only  ? — it  was  a  woman's, 
and,  therefore,  doubly  sacred." 

"Then  why  do  you  tell  it  now?"  asked  Sybil — I  can 
tell  you  why,  Mr.  Dermot — to  serve  your  revenge,  not  to 
serve  me." 

Mr.  Dermot  looked  at  her  in  indignant  amazement. 

"You  are  an  ungrateful  girl,"  he  said,  losing  all  patience, 
"  and  I  should  have  left  you  to  your  fate.  If  I  come  back  to 
this  house,  Sybil,  it  is  to  guard  you ;  and  if  I  were  not  here, 
your  bauishmeut  would  be  her  first  act." 

"  Then  she  would  be  more  merciful  than  you  arc,  Mr.  Der- 
mot," bitterly  said  Sybil.  "  I  dare  say  she  knows  there  are  tor- 
ments beyond  endurance." 


sybil's  second  love.  273 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  such  misery,  that  his  heart  relented 
once  more  toward  her.  Cruel,  unjust,  stinging  as  she  had  been, 
he  pitied  her  again,  and  again  approached  her  with  words  of 
comfort. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  "  do  not  be  so,  my  child  ;  let  one  wrong 
bind  us  more  closely — let  her  treachery  to  us  both  give  each  a 
friend." 

He  spoke  very  kindly,  but  with  a  calmness  beyond  Sybil's 
comprehension. 

"Ah!  how  can  you  bear  it?"  she  cried — "how  can  you 
bear  it  ?— for,  after  all,  you  loved  her." 

"  No,"  he  said,  his  eyes  kindling  with  much  scorn — "  T 
loved  a  great,  good,  and  generous  woman,  incapable  of  mean- 
ness, and  fraud,  and  perjury,  but  I  never  loved  Blanche  Cains." 

"  And  she  is  my  father's  wife?"  resumed  Sybil,  coming 
back  to  that  bitter  thought — "  mv  father's  wife — and  what 
ami?" 

She  sank  down  on  a  chair  with  a  look  full  of  woe.  Mr. 
Dermot  sat  down  by  her,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  will  be  true  to  you — 
true  as  death — life  is  too  false  to  swear  by." 

Sybil  was  ashamed  of  the  sudden  flood  of  joy  his  words 
and  looks  brought  to  her  heart.  She  scorned  herself  and  that 
love  against  which  she  ever  strove  in  vain;  that  weakness  which 
even  in  this  bitter  hour  made  her  feel  glad  to  sit  thus  by  him, 
receiving  this  stranger's  friendship.  Suddenly  she  turned  pale 
as  death. 

"Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said, trembling  with  passionate  emotion, 
"  tell  me  this.  Did  she  ever  betray  me  to  you — tell  you  any 
thing — any  thing,  in  short — " 

She  looked  at  him  with  such  scared  eyes  that  he  was 
amazed. 

"  Tell  me  any  thing  !  "  he  replied.  "  Why,  no,  Sybil,  how 
could  she?     We  had  no  private  interviews." 

"  Never  ?  "  said  Sybil,  relieved. 

Mr.  Dermot  smiled. 

"  Never  is  too  rigid,"  he  said.  "You  remember  the  little 
wood  near  the  mill  where  you  found  me?  I  was  waiting  for  her 
— on  the  day  when  her  head  ached.  You  remember,  too,  the 
sea-weed.  Well,  I  had  seen  her  that  morning,  and  your  sus- 
picion was  a  true  one;  but,  Sybil,  you  know  how  1  felt  then, 
and  you  may  sj'uess  how  she  felt  too.  No  fond,  foolish  lovers 
12* 


27*  sybil's  second  love. 

were  we,  but  secret  enemies,  politic  and  watchful.  Chance  threw 
opportunities  in  our  way,  but  need  I  tell  you  that  she  shunned, 
and  I  did  not  seek  their  repetition." 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Sybil,  moving  away  slightly.  "  I  want 
to  know  no  more.     She  was  truer  than  I  thought — " 

"  Truer  !  "  he  interrupted  with  some  passion.  "  Why,  from 
the  first  she  decreed  that  you  should  not  marry  that  wretched 
young  man  ;  her  plan  was  not  ripe  yet,  Sybil — your  father  was 
not  won,  and  she  did  not  want  to  leave  this  house.  So  she 
tempted  that  miserable  count,  and  so  played  upon  him,  that  he 
wrote — when  she  held  proof  she  sent  it  to  me,  and  I  came  to 
save  you,  and  unconsciously  abetted  her.     That  was  her  truth." 

"  And  you  were  jealous,"  said  Sybil,  moodily ;  "  that  was 
why  you  came — you  were  jealous,  Mr.  Dermot." 

"  Sybil,  Sybil,  if  I  had  been  jealous,  I  should  have  been 
clear-sighted.  Clever  as  she  is,  she  could  not  have  blinded  a 
jealous  man.     Besides,  I  am  not  all  trust  like  you,  Sybil." 

Sybil  raised  her  hands. 

"  Oh!  how  she  deceived  us  both,"  she  said  with  a  sort  of 
despair,  "  false  to  you,  false  to  me,  false  to  him — to  all." 

Mr.  Dermot  lightly  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said  significantly,  "  remember  that  she  was  free 
when  she  married  your  father — quite  free.  I  had  surrendered 
her  letters,  her  portrait,  and  given  her  back  her  liberty.  I  have 
no  right  to  quarrel  or  complain,  still  less  have  I  a  right  to  tell 
James  Kennedy — who  no  doubt  thinks  he  has  married  an  angel 
— that  this  angel  was  to  have  been  mine.  She  told  me  I  was 
her  first  love,  I  feel  sure  she  has  told  him  so  too.  Let  him  be- 
lieve her.  It  is  too  late  to  undeceive  your  father,  Sybil,  and  it 
would  be  useless  and  cruel  to  attempt  it.  Never  shall  a  Avord 
from  me  shake  his  belief  in  the  wife  he  has  married.  I  shall 
be  silent,  and  I  know  you  will  be  silent  too.  And,  Sybil,  do 
not  suppose  I  would  have  said  a  word  to  you,  if  you,  too,  could 
have  been  cheated  into  happiness.  No  ;  happy  are  the  deceived 
when  the  trick  is  well  done,  only  the  sleight  of  hand  must  not 
appear,  and  the  juggler  stand  betrayed.  I  know  nothing  of 
you,  Sybil,  if  that  false  woman  will  ever  win  back  your  lost 
love  ;  but  for  all  that  I  had  a  right  to  bid  you  beware.  She  has 
many  arts,  and  she  will  do  her  best  to  charm  you  back.  Sybil, 
you  may  call  it  revenge  if  you  will,  but  I  shall  hate — hate 
mortally  to  see  that  traitress  kiss  and  fondle  you,  and  triumph 
over  your  innocence.     Let  her  attempt  it  if  she  dare  !"  added 


sybil's  second  love.  275 

Mr.  Dermot,  stamping  his  foot  angrily,  "  let  her !  Sybil,  I  told 
you  once  I  would  be  your  true  friend,  and  when  I  learned  her 
treason — and  it  was  chauce  betrayed  her — my  first  impulse  was 
to  come  here,  and  warn,  and  guard,  and,  alas !  that  I  should  say 
so,  screen  you." 

"Why,  what  can  she  do  to  me?"  asked  Sybil. 

"  You  ask  it.  The  young,  beautiful,  adored  wife  of  a  man 
of  fifty.  Sybil,  I  know  what  she  will  attempt — to  charm  you 
back  if  she  can,  and,  failing  that,  to  hunt  you  out  of  your 
father's  house  and  heart.  But,  Sybil,  I  have  some  arrows  iuiny 
quiver  she  knows  nothing  of.     Do  not  fear — do  not  fear." 

He  had  been  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  some 
agitation.  He  stopped  by  her  as  he  uttered  the  words,  and  in 
all  her  desolation  it  was  comfort  to  Sybil  to  look  at  his  care- 
worn, haggard  face,  and  feel  that  even  in  this  hour  of  indigna- 
tion he  had  a  thought  for  her. 

"  Did  my  father  ask  you  to  tell  me  ? "  inquired  Sybil,  after 
awhile. 

Mr.  Dermot  came  back  and  sat  by  her. 

"  Your  father  believes  me  on  my  way  to  Canada.  He  is  in 
Scotland  with  the  bride,  and  I  did  not  think  it  needful  to  let 
her  know  that  she  will  find  me  here  on  her  return." 

"  But  are  you  sure  they  are  married  ? "  cried  Sybil. 

"  Am  I  sure  I  live  !  Sybil,  I  saw  them.  I  was  told  of  this 
marriage,  and  I  went  and  saw  them." 

"  And  she  will  come  here,  and  you  will  be  able  to  bear  that, 
Mr.  Dermot?" 

"  Quite  well,"  he  coolly  answered. 

"  Ah  !  you  never  loved  her  as  I  loved  her  ! " 

"Wisely  concluded — say  rather  that  my  love  died  a  thou- 
sand deaths,  and  that  yours  has  perished  at  one  fell  blow.  My 
poor  little  Sybil,  would  it  were  ended — would  it  were !  " 

He  spoke  in  such  pitying  accents  that  Sybil's  full  heart 
melted.  Sobs,  passionate  tears,  relieved  her.  He  took  her 
handkerchief  and  wiped  the  tears  from  her  cheeks.  It  was  as 
if  she  had  been  a  child,  and  he  the  fond,  indulgent  parent  com- 
forting it  in  its  first  grief. 

"  Do  not !  "  she  said,  "  do  not !  You  too  will  cease  to  care 
for  me,  kind  as  you  are  now  !  My  father  loved  me,  and  he  has 
put  me  by — and  so  will  you,  Mr.  Dermot — so  will  you  !  " 

"I  cannot  even  if  I  would,  Sybil.  You  have  been  per- 
verse, unjust,  stinging  even  in  your  wrath,  and  yet  I  cannot 
cease  liking  you." 


276  sybil's  second  love. 

His  words  were  kind,  but  his  looks  were  kinder  than  his 
words.  Sybil  trembled,  and  was  glad  to  hear  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Mush  below,  and  not  run  the  risk  of  self-betrayal.  This  kind- 
ness was  sweet,  but  it  was  both  a  snare  and  a  torment,  spite  all 
its  sweetness.  Unconscious  of  her  thoughts,  Mr.  Dermot  said 
quickly, 

"  Sybil,  we  must  tell  Mrs.  Mush  nothing — we  know  noth- 
ing." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Sybil.     "  Good-night,  Mr.  Dermot," 

She  left  him  so  quickly  that  he  had  not  time  to  remonstrate. 
Swiftly,  as  if  she  were  going  up  to  meet  the  once  loved  one, 
Sybil  ran  up  to  her  room.  Not  a  token  was  there,  but  it 
wrung  anew  her  poor  bleeding  heart.  Again  she  wept,  again 
she  sobbed,  passionately  upbraiding  the  deceiver,  and  feeling  in 
her  very  inmost  being  the  cruel  sting  of  a  deep  trust  betrayed 
and  a  great  friendship  broken. 

Something  beyond  all  this  Sybil  also  felt.  Her  lover's 
falsehood  had  been  almost  forgotten  in  the  pangs  of  her  second 
love,  and  once  more  treachery  had  been  to  her  as  earthquakes, 
shipwrecks,  and  murders,  all  things  terrible  and  remote,  and, 
thank  Heaven,  never  to  come  within  her  experience.  It  is  a 
common  illusion.  The  man  who  shall  be  murdered  ere  the  sun 
has  set,  rises  on  his  last  day  in  happy  ignorance  of  that  fate. 
Greed  or  revenge  are  already  on  their  way,  and  he  goes  to  meet 
them  as  they  come  to  meet  him.  It  is  to  be  in  that  railway 
carriage,  or  on  this  bridge,  or  by  that  lane,  or  in  his  own  house, 
and  he  leaves  the  spot  where  he  is  safe  to  seek  that  on  which  he 
is  to  perish.  When  the  whole  world  has  sat  in  judgment  on 
his  fatal  story,  men  remember  how  he  resisted  the  entreaties 
that  might  have  saved  him.  His  friends  pressed  him  to  stay  ; 
they  seemed  to  have  the  forewarning  he  failed  in,  and  heed- 
ing them  not,  he  went  forth  to  meet  the  slayer.  He  too  had 
heard  of  murders,  of  shipwrecks,  and  strange  perils  by  land 
and  sea,  but  he  had  never  realized  that  they  could  happen  to 
him.  His  path  was  to  be  safe,  his  bark  was  to  be  charmed,  his 
life  was  to  be  inviolate. 

So  had  Sybil  felt,  and  now,  like  that  victim  of  life's  chances, 
she  hud  not  merely  abetted  her  own  undoing,  but  she  lived  to 
see  it.  She  had  rejected  every  warning,  she  had  smiled  at  the 
"  Beware  "  that  might  have  saved  her.  She  had  forced  Blanche 
on  her  father,  she  had  wearied  him  with  her  praises.  She  had 
given  the   traitress  the   opportunity  she   might  not  even   have 


sybil's  second  love.  277 

sought  for.  These  were  bitter  thoughts.  But  bitterer  still 
rose  above  them  all  the  ghost  of  her  dead  friendship.  She  suf- 
fered as  only  the  young  can  suffer.  The  middle-aged  are  armor- 
proof.  They  never  trust  or  believe  so  entirely  as  to  be  quite  de- 
ceived. They  know  that  to-day's  friend  may  be  to-morrow's 
enemv.  But  the  vomica,  the  younw  who  give  the  whole  faith, 
the  whole  trust,  the  whole  love,  the  whole  fond  passion,  or  ar- 
dent friendship,  oh  !  pity  them! 

"When  Sybil  remembered,  through  that  weary  night,  how 
she  had  unveiled  her  heart  to  Blanche  Cains — how  she  had  al- 
lowed her  to  read  every  feeling,  every  thought  as  it  sprang,  and 
when  she  remembered,  too,  the  use  to  which  this  knowledge 
had  been  put,  and  how  she  had  been  played  upon,  and  trifled 
with,  and  deceived,  she  moaned  again  in  the  bitterness  of  hei 
anguish. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"  Sybil,  did  you  sleep  last  night  ?  " 

So  spoke  Mr.  Dermot  to  Sybil  when  he  found  her  in  the 
library  the  next  morning.  She  had  stolen  down  there  early, 
hoping  for  brief  solitude,  but  he  had  seen  and  followed  her,  and 
he  now  stood  looking  at  her  pale  young  face  and  sad  eyes,  with 
grave  and  pitying  attention. 

"  Xo,  I  did  not  sleep,"  replied  Sybil ;  "  it  rained  all  night, 
and  the  wind  blew  and  was  a  very  gale — I  could  not  sleep." 

"  Xo,  Sybil,  you  could  not  sleep,  for  this  was  a  sad  night  in 
your  little  history.     Sybil,  is  there  no  comfort  for  you  ?  " 

"  Xone,"  listlessly  replied  Sybil ;  and  she  turned  from  him 
to  the  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  wet  landscape  and  bleak 
sky. 

"You  amaze  me,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  anger  in  his 
tone  ;  "pray,  what  charm  was  there  in  Blanche  Cains  that  her 
guilt  should  thus  drive  you  to  despair?  Is  all  truth  ended  be- 
cause she  was  false  ? — or  has  life  nothing  left  because  of  her 
'oss  \ " 

"  Life  has  plenty  left,"  replied  Sybil ;  "  but  not  for  me." 

"And  you  are  eighteen,  and  you  are  good,  clever,  and  very 
pretty.  I  wish  you  would  not  talk  such  nonsense,  my  dear. 
Why,  old  as  I  am,  I  think  that  life  has  something  left  for  me  ; 


278  sybil's  second  love. 

and  -what  is  more,  I  mean  to  compel  the  wayward  lady's  gifts, 
and  what  she'll  not  bestow,  I'll  take." 

Sybil  turned  round  and  looked  at  him  with  mingled  envy 
and  admiration.  He  looked  very  handsome  and  defiant,  and 
shook  his  tawny  locks  as  if  in  very  scorn  of  fate. 

"  You  see,"  he  continued  gayly,  "  faint  heart  never  won  fair 
lady.  Life  is  a  woman,  and  when  we  court  her  smiles,  she  jilts 
us.     "We  must  compel  her  kindness,  Sybil." 

Mr.  Dermot  half  hoped  by  this  libel  on  her  sex  to  draw  forth 
Sybil's  indignation,  and  rouse  her  from  her  apathy  ;  but  Sybil 
was  mute.  Her  heart  was  full  too,  for  she  thought  how  willingly 
she  would  bestow  her  smiles  if  they  were  but  sought,  and  how 
her  kindness  need  never  be  compelled. 

What !  not  a  word  ?  he  said,  looking  atr  her  wistfully ; 
"  Sybil,  Sybil,  that  will  never  do.  Scold  me  as  you  did  last 
night — I  shall  like  it  a  great  deal  better." 

"  I  cannot,"  replied  Sybil ;  "  I  feel  dead  this  morning." 

"  I  wish,  Sybil,  you  would  tell  me  Miss  Cains's  hold  upon 
your  heart.  I  care  more  for  your  little  finger  than  she  ever 
cared  for  your  whole  person.  I  would  do  any  thing  to  serve 
you,  and  almost  any  thing  to  please  you  ;  but,  alack  the  day,  I 
have  not  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair,  and  an  angelic  face,  so  you 
care  naught  for  me." 

He  spoke  in  jest,  but  Sybil  could  not  bear  that  he  should 
say  it  even  in  jest. 

"  Do  not  think  so,"  she  answered  earnestly ;  "  oh !  pray  do 
not,  Mr.  Dermot.       I  value  your  kindness — " 

"  I  do  not  want  that — I  want  you  to  value  me,  Sybil." 

"  Well,  then,  I  do,"  she  braveiy  replied ;  "  indeed  I  do." 

"  Very  much  ? " 

"More  than  you  think,  Mr.  Dermot." 

She  spoke  with  a  sad  earnestness,-tnat  brought  tears  to  her 
eyes. 

"  My  poor  little  Sybil,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  her  kindly, 
"  I  very  much  fear  Uncle  Edward  is  now  your  only  friend.  Do 
you  hear  that  hammering  up-stairs,  and  do  you  know  its  mean- 
ing? No  ;  well,  then  be  it  known  unto  you  that  there  arrived 
this  morning  a  host  of  packing-cases  full  of  furniture,  new,  cost- 
ly, and  splendid,  for  the  use  or  pleasure  of  the  bride.  Blanche 
Cains  has  sold  herself,  and  no  one  will  surely  blame  her  that 
she  exacts  the  full  purchase  price  from  her  foolish  buyer.  So 
this  price  is  coming,  or,  at  least,  some  fair  instalments  of  it, 


sybil's  second  love.  279 

under  every  .luxurious  aspect  a  woman's  fancy  can  devise.  Two 
experienced  Parisian  upholsterers  are  now  unpacking  the  bower 
of  Mrs.  Kennedy.  Come  and  look  on,  Sybil,  you  must  steel 
yourself  betimes." 

Sybil  reddened  and  turned  pale ;  but  yielding  to  a  bitter 
fascination,  sbe  went. 

The  two  men  had  come  armed  with  a  letter  of  instructions 
from  Mr.  Kennedy,  telling  them  which  rooms  to  adorn,  but  not 
saying  a  word  more.  To  his  daughter  he  had  not  written,  and 
had  she  not  been  aware  of  his  message,  she  might  have  sup- 
posed that  she  was  the  object  of  his  munificence.  Alas !  was 
this  silent  indifference  the  forewarning  of  her  new  destiny? 

Blanche  had  no  doubt  chosen  her  old  room,  for  this  the  two 
men  were  now  engaged  in  arranging.  Very  deftly  did  they  set 
about  their  task."  They  stripped  the  room  of  its  contents, 
ruthlessly  destroying  every  little  proof  of  Sybil's  tenderness  and 
care.  They  cast  forth  a  little  rosewood  table  she  had  placed 
there,  and  the  muslin-covered  toilet  fashioned  by  her  friendly 
hands;  they  tore  down  the  very  paper  from  the  walls,  and  in  its 
stead  set  up  silk  damask  hangings  of  the  most  celestial  blue. 
Cunningly  woven  in  this  texture,  Sybil  saw  little  white  cupids 
disporting  themselves  midst  white  flowers,  and  wreaths,  and 
quivering  hearts.  Some  brandished  their  arrows  with  a  merci- 
less look  ;  others  floated  about  with  bandaged  eyes,  their  arms 
outstretched  helplessly ;  and  others,  again,  lay  in  ambush  in  the 
wreaths,  and  bided  their  hour.  Such  splendor  Sybil  had  never 
seen,  and  had  only  imagined  in  the  palaces  of  queens. 

"  I  hope  you  a'dmire'these  cupids,  Sybil,"  said  Mr.  Dermnt — 
"  pray  do  ;  they  cost  a  pound  a  yard,  and  they  are  dirt-cheap 
at  that  price — a  bargain,  these  men  tell  me." 

"  They  are  very  pretty,"  said  Sybil,  in  order  to  say  some- 
thing. 

"  So  they  are,  but  God  forbid  there  should  ever  be  such 
cupids  in  your  room  when  you  marry,  and  come  home,  Sybil. 
Better  bare  whitewashed  walls,  and  true  love,  any  day,  than 
this." 

The  walls  now  being  hung,  the  rest  of  the  furniture  was  un- 
packed, and  brought  up.  The  carpet  might  have  vied  with  auy 
painting,  so  fresh  were  its  roses.  A  goddess  might  have  trod 
upon  it,  and  fancied  herself  in  Olympus.  The  bed,  too,  was  of 
some  rare  gray  wood,  with  a  satin  sheen,  and  the  toilet-table 
was  trimmed  with  costly  lace.     Every  thing  else  matched,  and 


280  sybil's  second  love. 

when  the  delicate  curtains  hung  from  the  window,  and  floated 
around  the  bed,  the  whole  room  looked  so  exquisite  and  dainty, 
that  Sybil's  heart  swelled  with  jealousy,  and  she  felt  the  dawn 
of  a  new  torment. 

"The  worst  of  all  this  vanity,"  said  Mr.  Dermot,  following  her 
out  of  the  room,  "  is  that  it  is  taken  out  of  our  substance, 
Sybil.  Your  money  and  mine  will  in  the  end  pay  for  all  that 
splendor.  James  Kennedy  is  not  a  rich  man,  and  the  foolish 
woman  is  killing  the  bird  with  the  golden  eggs.  The  drawing- 
room,  too,  is  to  be  new  furnished.  The  plain  red  velvet  will 
not  do  now ;  we  must  have  some  tapestry  second  only  to 
Gobelin's,  and  carved  chairs,  all  gold  and  glitter.  I  believe 
there  is  also  a  new  carriage  for  the  divinity  of  Saint  Vincent, 
and  a  costly  harp  has  come,  across  which  she  wiH  fling  her  fair 
arms.  She  certainly  knows  what  suits  her  beauty,  and  I  sup- 
pose that  is  an  art  too.  And  now,  Sybil,  a  friendly  word:  Do 
not  sit  down  and  grieve,  and  fret  away  your  roses,  and  dim 
your  bright  eyes  with  weeping.  Be  young,  be  gay,  and  hand- 
some ;  and  if  you  find  some  honest  man  worthy  of  you,  why, 
Sybil,  take  him,  and  fly  from  this  house,  for,  verily,  perdition  is 
hanging  over  it." 

"Thank  you,"  shortly  said  Sybil — "  I  am  in  no  hurry." 

"  Who  said  you  should  be  ?  But  you  do  not  seem  pleased, 
jet  I  mean  well.  Sybil,  we  have  been  wrecked  in  the  same 
fthip — we  are  cast  ashore  on  the  same  desert  island;  do  not 
quarrel  with  me,  your  faithful  friend,  because  I  want  to  fashion 
out  the  means  of  escape.  You  are  going  to  the  garden,  Sybil 
— let  me  go  with  you,  and  smoke  a  cigar  as  we  walk  along ; 
there  is  much  I  wish  to  say  to  you." 

They  stood  in  the  hall;  he  took  down  her  cloak,  which  was 
hanging  there,  and  wrapped  it  around  her.  Sybil  did  not  say 
nay,  but  it  was  with  a  cold,  irritated  look  that  she  yielded. 
Sybil  felt  like  that  garden  which  they  now  entered.  The  sun 
shone  upon  it — but  did  its  watery  gleam  give  the  dead  earth  life, 
or  bid  the  sap  of  spring  flow  in  the  trees,  or  the  joy  of  summer 
abide  in  their  barren  boughs  ?  There  was  no  comfort  for  her, 
and  his  kindness,  though  well  meant,  was  only  a  new  torment. 
He  bade  her  forget,  be  happy,  and  marry ;  but  could  he  offer 
he*  the  love  which  would  drown  hf;r  cares  in  sweet  oblivion  ? 
Could  he  take  charge  of  her  happiness,  and  compensate  her 
heavy  losses  by  giving  her  the  tenderness  of  father,  friend,  and 
husband — all  in  one  ? — he  did  not — he  could  not.     Then  why 


sybil's  second  love.  281 

trouble  her  with  words  ? — why  not  leave  her  to  silence  and 
peace  ?  Mr.  Dermot  walked  by  her  side,  unconscious  of  her 
thoughts,  and  by  his  language  he  added  to  her  secret  irritation. 

"  You  see,  Sybil,"  he  said,  "  the  hardship  of  your  position  is 
this — that  you  may  have  to  live  years  perhaps  with  your 
enemy.  I  call  her  your  enemy,  not  that  I  believe  she  hates 
you,  but  that,  in  self-defence,  she  must  end  by  doing  so.  You 
will  never  love  her  again.  Of  course  you  will  forgive  her,  but 
we  all  know  what  forgiveness  is  without  love.  Ah  !  if  after 
cheating  and  deceiving  you,  Sybil,  she  could  have  her  friend 
back,  why  you  may  be  sure  she  would  ;  but  as  she  cannot  she 
must  rule  her  step-daughter — and  how  will  you  like  that  ?  Not 
at  all ;  then  take  my  word  for  it,  marriage — I  mean  good  and 
honorable  marriage,  is  your  only  safeguard." 

He  had  come  back  to  the  hateful  theme. 

"  And  how  will  you  manage,  Mr.  Dermot  ? "  asked  Sybil—  • 
"  surely  you,  too,  will  have  your  difficulties  ?  " 

Mr.  Dermot  took  out  his  cigar,  and  smiled  a  peculiar  smile, 

"  Say  rather  that  Mrs.  Kennedy  will  have  her  difficulties,"  ho 
replied  at  length.  "  She  thought  me  safe  off  to  Canada ;  she 
probably  thought  she  could  make  your  father  keep  me  there. 
Foolish  woman  !  She  has  married  the  most  secretive  of  men, 
and  knows  nothing  of  his  intentions,  his  power,  or  his  business. 
Providence  has  been  too  much  for  her  in  one  matter  at  least. 
I  shall  not  go  to  Canada ;  and  she  must  either  leave  Saint  Vin- 
cent or  bear  with  the  infliction  of  my  presence — for  here  I  stay 
— for  life,  perhaps." 

"  For  life  ! "  thought  Sybil,  her  heart  beating,  "  for  life !  " 

"  So  you  see,"  he  resumed,  "  I  am  all  right,  and  need  take 
no  trouble." 

"Then  you  feel  nothing  !"  cried  Sybil,  impetuously — "you 
were  to  have  married  her — and  yet  you  feel  nothing ! " 

"And  you  think  me  cold-blooded?"  he  said  quietly. 
"  Why,  so  I  should  be  if  I  loved  her,  or  rather  had  loved  her, 
and  could  stay  and  look  on." 

"  And  did  you  not  then  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  Blanche  Cains  and  the  woman 
that  I  loved  were  two ;  but  I  will  be  more  explicit.  Almost 
from  the  first  week  that  she  entered  this  house  my  love  sick- 
ened. I  could  not  help  it — it  was  her  doing.  I  resisted,  but 
the  disease  Avas  too  strong  for  the  leech's  art,  and  long  before 
we  parted,  and  I  burned  the  letters  she  returned,  the   love  that 


282  sybil's  second  love. 

gave  them  birth  lay  cold  and  dead — a  thing  of  ashes.  And 
now  what  do  you  want  me  to  feel  because  she  has  married  your 
father  ?  Regret — jealousy — resentment.  Pshaw  !  I  feel  pity 
and  sorrow  for  James  Kennedy,  and  to  see  her  again  is  not 
pleasant.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  the  dregs  of  affection  ;  and, 
believe  me,  Sybil,  they  are  hateful  food,  as  nauseous  as  man 
ever  tasted  ;  but,  beyond  that,  what  can  I  feel  ? " 

"  True — she  has  not  robbed  you  ? " 

"  Has  she  not,  though ! "  he  replied,  his  cheek  flushing ; 
"  and  what  do  you  call  three  years  of  my  life  spent  in  adoring 
her? — for  of  course  I  adored  her.  She  was  great,  beautiful, 
good — a  divinity,  and  the  worship  lasted  three  years.  And 
what  do  you  call  the  wakening — not  sudden,  like  yours,  but 
gradual  and  slow,  to  the  hard — hard  truth?"  I  worshipped 
Una,  and  lo  and  behold  you,  instead  of  the  heavenly  maid  with 
her  milk-white  lamb,  behold  a  false  Duessa,  as  hateful  as  the 
other  was  fair!  Only  you  see,  Sybil,  men  and  women  are  dif- 
ferently constituted.  I  believe  it  is  woman's  nature  to  brood 
over  lost  love — I  do  not  believe  it  is  man's.  His  pangs  are 
the  keener  because  his  nature  is  stronger,  more  violent,  if  you 
like,  than  woman's ;  but  they  are  also  the  less  enduring  of  the 
two.  I  confess  that  the  ignoble  passion  which  can  survive  es- 
teem is  beyond  my  comprehension." 

"  And  why  did  you  cease  to  esteem  her  ?  "  asked  Sybil  al- 
most sharply. 

"  Say  rather,  why,  having  been  blind  so  long,  did  you  be- 
come clear-sighted?  Heaven  knows,  Sybil,  I  do  not — but  it  was 
so.  You  see,  I  met  Miss  Cains  three  years  ago  in  England,  and 
sa\r  but  little  of  her.  We  got  engaged,  but  met  seldom.  Dis- 
tance is  a  wonderful  enchantress,  and  daily  intercourse  a  terrible 
tale-teller.  It  may  be  that  she  helped  it  too,  for  she  was  sick 
of  me,  and  panted  for  liberty,  and  a  rich  husband.  Poor,  de- 
luded girl !  she  little  thought  that  of  the  two — your  father  and 
me — I  was  the  richer  man.  Let  him  give  her  silk  cupids,  Sybil, 
and  upholsterer's  splendor,  it  will  go  hard  indeed  if  Uncle  Ed- 
ward does  not  get  you  a  wealthier  husband,  and  a  more  sub- 
stantial home  than  she  has  bought  with  all  her  perfidy." 

This  promise  exasperated  Sybil. 

"  I  will  not  marry,"  she  said  angrily,  and  her  eyes  flashing; 
"  do  I  not  see  by  you,  Mr.  Dermot,  the  value  of  a  man's  liking  ? 
You  do  not  know  yourself  why  you  ceased  loving  Miss  Cains. 
It  came,  it  went,  it  was  gone,  and  you  are  glad — any  one  can 


sybil's  second  love.  285 

see  you  are  glad  of  that  perfidy  which  wrings  my  very  heart. 
And  you  want  me  to  many  ! — to  he  liked  a  few  days,  then  pnt 
hy  like  the  toy  that  has  ceased  to  please,  or  is  secretly  detested  ! 
Never — never !     I  will  die  first." 

Her  passion,  her  anger,  and  energy  amazed  Mr.  Dermot. 
Bnt  he  soon  rallied. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said  smiling,  "  it  is  not  worth,  it  is  not  even 
beauty — that  lure  to  the  eye — which  wakens  love,  for  mystery 
is  the  name  of  its  birth.  But  that  a  man  of  sense  and  honor, 
who  has  married  for  love  a  good  and  handsome  woman,  can 
cease  to  love  her,  I  will  never  believe.  His  judgment,  his  taste, 
his  conscience  will  keep  him  true.  There  is  both  mental  and 
moral  depravity  in  unjustified  faithlessness.  If  you  ever  win  a 
true  man,  Sybil,  you  will  keep  him,  and  that  without  effort." 

"  You  think  so  ? "  said  Sybil,  with  a  dreary  smile,  in  which 
Mr.  Dermot  read  doubt  and  irony. 

"  Sybil,  Sybil,  you  vex  me,"  he  said,  his  face  flushing  slight- 
ly. "  I  know  you  wrong  me  in  your  thoughts,  but  if  you  had 
a  few  years  more,  or  I  a  few  years  less,  I  would  find  a  Avay  to 
convince  you." 

He  looked  at  her  more  in  anger  than  in  love,  but  the  anger 
quickly  passed  away,  and  the  tenderness  remained — a  tender- 
ness in  which  blended  reproach  and  regret.  Sybil's  breath 
seemed  gone.  Never  before  had  she  felt  as  if  she  could  please 
Mr.  Derrnot's  eye,  or  as  if  her  beauty  were  more  than  a  child's 
in  his  sight.  Provoked  though  he  was,  he  knew  what  he  was 
saying,  and  his  voice  rang  true  to  every  word  he  had  uttered. 
A  word,  a  look,  a  breath  might  place  eternal  happiness  within 
her  grasp.  The  word  was  not  spoken ;  neither  look  nor  sign 
was  given. 

"I  will  die  before  I  win  him  so,"  thought  Sybil,  clinching 
her  slender  hands  together. 

She  caught  his  look,  eagerly  perusing  her  troubled  face,  and 
in  its  puzzled  meaning  she  read  a  half  revelation  of  the  truth. 
In  a  moment  she  was  calm  and  grave. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  little  mocking  smile,  ami 
with  a  cool,  unconcerned  voice. 

Mr.  Dermot  looked  disappointed,  like  one  who,  stooping  to 
pick  up  a  gem,  finds  a  worthless  bauble  in  its  stead. 

"  And  yet  'tis  a  pity,"  he  said  involuntarily. 

"  For  me  ? "  suggested  Sybil  with  a  curling  lip. 

"No,  no,  Sybil,  for  me,  of  course,"  he  replied  with  a  grave 


284  sybil's  second  love. 

smile.  4'  I  know  that  young  ladies  of  your  age  consider  men 
of  mine  to  be  quite  in  the  '  sear  and  yellow  leaf ; '  and  I  be- 
lieve, Sybil,  tbey  are  right.  Youth  needs  youth,  and  when  1 
look  for  a  husband  for  you — " 

"  I  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Dermot,  to  do  no  such 
thing,"  indignantly  interrupted  Sybil ;  "  I  consider  your  re- 
marks rude  and  impertinent." 

"Do  you,  Sybil  ?  Well,  so  they  might  be,  if  I  were  not 
your  only  friend  now,  my  poor  little  girl." 

The  kindness  of  his  tone,  his  pitying  looks,  went  to  Sybil's 
heart.     Her  eyes  grew  dim,  her  lips  trembled. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said,  "  do  not  mind  me — be  my  friend 
still,  only  do  not  try  to  comfort  me  by  talking  so — it  exasperates 
me." 

Mr.  Dermot  did  not  answer  her,  but  he  thought,  "  She  can- 
not forget  that  foolish  count !  "  and  the  thought  annoyed  him. 
A  brief  pause  followed.  When  Sybil  spoke,  it  was  to  ask  what 
they  should  say  to  Mrs.  Mush. 

"  Nothing,  my  dear,  we  know  nothing.  She  saw  the  pack- 
ing-cases, and  knows  of  their  contents  and  destination — do  not 
start  so,  child,  I  mean  that  she  guesses,  and  precisely  because 
she  guesses,  she  is  mute.     So  be  you." 

He  spoke  quietly,  and  rather  coldly,  and  without  looking  at 
her.  He  was  displeased.  Sybil  saw  that,  but  why  so  ?  She 
lingered  awhile  near  him,  then,  seeing  that  he  remained  cold 
and  silent,  she  left  him  slowly. 

Mr.  Dermot  was  displeased,  but  he  was  vexed  with  himself 
for  that  displeasure.  What  was  it  to  him  if  Sybil  regretted 
her  faithless  lover  ?  Had  he  ever  wished  to  be  more  than  her 
friend  ?  Did  he  wish  it  even  now  ?  "  Foolish  girl,  all  I  want  is 
to  see  her  safely  married !  "  he  thought.  But  did  he  really  wish 
that  ?  The  doubt  startled  Mr.  Dermot.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
be  Sybil's  friend,  but  it  would  be  desperate  folly  to  become 
Sybil's  slave.  In  a  moment  Mr.  Dermot's  pride  was  in  arms,  as 
he  saw  himself  a  fond  lover  at  saucy  little  Sybil's  mercy.  He 
smiled  the  vision  to  scorn,  and  mentally  uttered  a  firm  and  in- 
exorable "  Nay." 

Something  of  this  Sybil  felt  when  they  met  at  breakfast. 
Mrs.  Mush  was  in  her  usual  spirits  ;  Mr.  Dermot  was  cheerful 
with  her,  and  very  kind  with  Sybil.  But  his  kindness  was  tem- 
pered with  a  grave  familiarity,  which  sank  her  into  the  merest 
little  girl.  If  a  vague  hope  had  crept  into  Sybil's  heart  that 
morning,  it  died  stillborn  before  she  rose  from  the  table. 


sybil's  second  love.  285 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

Grief  is  a  stream  that  deepens  as  it  flows.  On  the  amaze- 
ment which  Sybil  had  felt,  now  followed  a  dark  despondency. 

We  all  have  read,  in  the  early  history  of  the  Church,  how 
statesmen,  sages,  great  warriors,  unlettered  peasants,  simple 
women,  put  down  the  old  heathen  worship,  and  took  up  the 
faith  of  Christ.  We  all,  according  to  the  measure  of  our  fervor, 
have  marvelled  at,  and  sometimes  envied  them  the  joy  of  leav- 
ing foul  error  and  finding  shining  truth.  But  have  we  thought 
of  the  pangs  and  the  heart-faintings  which  preceded  the  advent 
of  their  Christian  belief  ?  Was  it  not  a  fearful  thing  to  see  that 
glorious  Olympus  emptying  of  all  its  gods  and  goddesses,  as  if 
star  by  star,  and  planet  by  planet,  had  dropped  from  man's  sky  ? 
AYhere  was  the  majesty  of  Jove,  the  breath  of  whose  ambrosian 
curls  shook  the  world  ?  What  became  of  the  calm  wisdom  of 
Pallas,  and  the  beauty  of  Yenus,  and  the  fleetness  of  Mercury, 
and  the  glory  of  Apollo  ? — did  they  too  vanish  ?  Whether  they 
perished  in  one  great  cataclysm  of  the  soul,  or  melted  away  out 
of  its  domain  into  shadowy  grayness,  a  dreary  void  followed. 
It  was  not  at  once  that  a  sublimer  faith  stepped  in  and  con- 
quered. A  voice  proclaimed,  indeed,  to  the  dismayed  world, 
that  the  great  Pan  was  dead  ;  but  the  cross  on  Calvarv,  and  the 
new  heaven,  with  choirs  of  angels,  and  mighty  prophets,  and 
ardent  apostles,  and  palm-bearing  martyrs  in  white  robes,  were 
still  matters  of  doubt  or  speculation  to  multitudes.  Think  of 
the  agonies  which  the  searching  soul  endured  between  these 
two  truths;  that  which  having  proved  a  falsehood  was  lost  for- 
ever, and  this  which  was  not  yet  grasped.  Alas  !  the  bitter 
pangs  and  throes  which  the  heathen  world  then  bore,  we  have 
to  bear  on  the  day  when  we  put  by  some  great  worship,  and 
wander  forth  in  the  darkness  of  our  unbelief.  Our  heaven  of 
friendship  or  of  love,  of  some  creed,  mortal  or  divine,  is  empty, 
and  no  other  God  has  come  to  fill  it.  The  old  faith  is  dead, 
but  the  new  one  is  not  yet  born,  and  the  interregnum  is  inex- 
pressibly grievous  and.  wearisome.  In  this  dark  mood  fi'It 
Sybil.  She  had  set  her  heart  on  one  great  adoration,  and  it 
was  dust  and  ashes.  No  other  feeling  had  been  so  strong  in 
her  an  this,  for  in  it  she  had  placed  her  whole  faith,  and  to  it 
she  had  trusted  her  whole  heart.  Every  other  she  had  stinted 
in  some  measure — to  this  she  had  denied  nothing.     She  had 


28G  Sybil's  second  love. 

given  it  trust,  hope,  tenderness,  all  her  heart  had  to  give  !  Why 
had  it  ended  in  her  bitter  confusion  and  humiliation  ?  Oh  ! 
how  hard,  how  very  hard  it  was ;  aud  how  the  poor  young 
thing,  unused  to  such  battles  of  the  soul,  felt  tossed  on  a  sea 
of  doubt  and  calamity  !  How  she  spent  day  and  night  in 
sad  lamenting  over  her  incomparable  wrong  !  She  felt  singled 
out  by  Fate,  and  thought  hers  the  cruellest  sorrow  that  had 
ever  been  borne.  She  could  not  help  it.  I  wonder  if  any  one 
could  have  convinced  her  that  hers  was  no  solitary  lot ;  that 
grief  as  deep  had  often  been  felt  by  men  and  womeu  who  had 
outlived  it  and  long  been  dust ;  that  a  treason  as  shameful  had 
been  wrought  again  and  again  to  the  trusting  friend  in  days  and 
years,  ay,  and  in  ages  too  long  gone  by  ?  That  the  present  held 
aught  like  her  story,  Sybil  would  have  resented  with  indigna- 
tion and  grief.  Throughout  all  time  the  sorrowing  heart  has 
had  but  one  self-same  cry  : 

"  Oh  !  all  ye  that  pass  by  the  way,  attend,  and  see  if  there 
be  any  sorrow  like  to  my  sorrow." 

Thus,  in  her  own  eyes,  at  least,  her  wrongs  were  paramount. 
Never  had  a  friend  been  so  betrayed  as  Sybil  Kennedy ;  never 
had  truth,  and  honor,  and  generosity,  and  every  virtue  which 
should  flourish  in  a  woman's  heart,  been  so  outraged  as  by 
Blanche  Cains.  She  dwelt  and  brooded  over  these  things  in 
bitterness  and  vexation  of  spirit,  fretting  all  chance  of  patience 
away.  She  thought  of  her  utter  loss,  as  the  merchant  thinks 
of  his  great  ship  that  went  down  in  the  sucking  waves  and  was 
devoured  by  them.  It  was  laden  with  Indian  treasure,  with 
gold,  and  precious  silks,  and  costly  spice,  and  yet  this  priceless 
freight  could  not  save  it.  As  he  hates  that  greedy,  devouring 
sea,  and  chafes  at  it,  so  did  Sybil  now  hate  life  which  had 
wronged  her  so  cruelly,  and  so  pitilessly  plundered  her. 

Mrs.  Mush,  who  suspected  much,  but  knew  nothing,  could 
not  console  Sybil.  Mr.  Dermot,  who  had  survived  the  loss  of 
his  beautiful  mistress,  knew  that  Sybil  would  outlive  the 
treachery  of  her  adored  friend.  He  left  the  sad  girl  to  her  own 
thoughts,  and  administered  comfort  under  the  general  form  of 
kindness.  Sometimes  Sybil  took,  and  sometimes  she  rejected 
this  medicine.  Mr.  Dermot  bore  with  her  waywardness,  and 
would  not  be  discouraged.  His  patient  goodness  at  length  con- 
quered her  one  morning. 

Mr.  Dermot  had  found  her  alone  in  the  drawing-room ;  he 
had  as  usual  done  his  best  to  draw  her  into  conversation,  and 


sybil's  second  love.  287 

Sybil  had,  as  slie  often  did,  given  him  short,  wearied  replies, 
that  said  plainly, 

"  Let  me  he  at  peace." 

"  It  is  no  use,  Sybil,"  he  said,  sitting  down  by  her  side  ;  "  I 
will  not  indulge  you  in  that  constant  moping.  You  must  be 
yourself  once  more,  my  little  bright  and  gay  Sybil.  Do  you 
remember  her  ?     I  do  quite  well." 

Sybil  did  not  answer.     He  continued  : 

"  She  was  as  merry  as  a  lark,  and  as  busy  as  a  bee.  Her 
work  did  not  linger  as  does  this  now  lying  idly  on  your  lap. 
She  read,  she  studied,  she  sang,  she  ran  about  the  garden.  She 
was  as  grave  as  a  judge  sometimes,  and  sometimes  as  mis- 
chievous as  a  fairy.  I  liked  her  very  much,  and  I  think  that 
she  liked  me.  And  now  she  has  vanished,  and  there  is  another 
Sybil  in  her  stead ;  a  sad  Sybil,  whom  neither  eloquence,  nor 
praise,  nor  blame  can  waken  from  her  apathy,  and  who,  worst 
of  all,  cares  about  nothing  and  no  one." 

"But  I  do  care  about  you,  Mr.  Dermot,"  said  Sybil, 
gravely. 

"  I  wish  you  would  prove  it,  then." 

"  How  so  ?  " 

Mr.  Dermot  hesitated.  Sybil  was  not  his  niece,  nor  his 
sister,  nor  any  thing  to  him  save  his  little  friend.  The  language 
of  friendship  is  often  too  like  that  of  love,  and  though  he  did 
not  think  she  would  misconstrue  him,  he  had  the  prudence 
which  springs-  from  experience,  and  he  would  not  give  her  cause 
to  do  so. 

"  My  little  Sybil,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  when  we  care  about 
people,  we  generally  find  a  way  of  proving  it — an  easy,  natural 
way,  which  springs  from  the  sincerity  of  our  feeling." 

Sybil's  color  came  and  went. 

"  Ah  !  if  he  knew,"  she  thought,  "  if  he  knew  !  " 

But  Mr.  Dermot  did  not  know,  he  did  not  even  suspect.  So 
he  resumed : 

"  Yet  friendship  is  pleasant.  I  wish  you  were  really  my 
brother's  daughter,  Sybil — say  a  little  orphan  girl  whom  1  had 
to  take  care  of.  And  then  there  would  be  no  Mrs.  Kennedy  to 
vex  and  trouble  us  in  this  quiet  old  abbey.  You  would  like 
Uncle  Edward  fast  enough  if  you  had  no  one  else  to  like,  and  I 
need  not  be  sitting  here  a  whole  morning  to  coax  you  into  a 
good  humor." 

"  Indeed — indeed  you  are  too  good,"  cried  Sybil.     "  I  do 


2S8  sybil's  second  love. 

not  deserve  your  kindness,  I  do  not.  I  am  perverse,  naughty 
disagreeable.  But,  Mr.  Dermot,  I  cannot  help  it  sometimes. 
Oh !  think  of  it — I  have  lost  a  friend." 

"And  I  have  won  an  enemy — a  keen,  bitter  enemy." 

"  Surely   she     cannot    hurt    you,"    said    Sybil,    uneasily 
"  Surely—" 

"  Yes,  she  can,"  interrupted  Mr.  Dei-mot,  with  a  short,  de- 
fiant laugh.  "  And  what  is  more,  she  will  try  to  do  so.  Let 
her !  With  God's  help  I  will  be  a  match  for  her  again  and 
again.  Providence  defeated  her  once,  why  not  twice  or 
thrice  ? " 

Sybil  was  startled. 

"  What  did  she  do  ?  "  she  asked,  under  her  breath. 

"  I  shall  tell  you  later." 

"Later!  and  you  say  I  am  your  friend!"  she  said,  jeal- 
ously. 

"  You  are,  Sybil,  but  I  cannot  tell- you  now,  nor  here.  Take 
a  walk  by  the  sea,  this  afternoon,  and  I  will  meet  you  there,  and 
tell  you." 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Mush  did  not  allow  Sybil  to  reply. 
This  lady  gave  them  both  a  keen,  merry  look,  then  became 
very  demure.  Mr.  Dermot  saw  nothing.  Sybil,  who  felt  her 
face  burn,  bent  it  over  her  work,  and  stitched  assiduously. 
Mrs.  Mush  sat  down  in  an  American  rocking-chair,  leaned  back, 
folded  her  hands  on  her  lap,  and  said,  in  her  clear  voice, 

"  Mr.  Dermot,  which  do  you  like  best  in  a  love-story,  the  first 
or  the  last  chapter  ?  " 

"  What  love-story  are  you  reading,  Mrs.  Mush  ?  " 

"  None.     I  never  read  stories." 

"  And  I  never  read  love-stories." 

"  But  if  you  did  read  love-stories,  which  would  you  prefer, 
the  first  or  the  last  chapter  ? " 

"  Oh,  momentous  question  !  Pray  how  am  I  to  answer  it  ? 
The  first  chapter  may  be  sweet  and  the  last  bitter — an  Idyll 
closing  in  tragedy.  Mrs.  Mush,  I  can  venture  no  opinion  with- 
out first  hearing  you." 

"Well,  then,  Mr.  Dermot,  I  say  there  should  be  no  last 
chapter — that  it  is  a  fatal  mistake  of  all  dealers  in  love  fiction 
to  write  one.  Every  century,  or  half  or  quarter  of  a  century, 
nay,  every  year  if  you  like  it,  should  have  its  love-stories,  which 
the  next  year,  or  next  century,  should  take  up  and  continue.  I 
speak  of  the  survivors,  for  every  period   should  bury  its  own 


sybil's  second  love.  289 

dead.  A  comfortable  plan  would  this  be,  in  ray  opinion,  and 
it  would  do  away  with,  the  inevitable  wedding-fasrors  of  one 
tribe  of  writers,  or  the  no  less  inevitable  grave  and  churchyard 
of  the  other.  Why  should  Sir  Charles  Grandison  wed  and  lose 
all  his  graces  by  becoming  an  obsolete  grandpapa  ?  Why  should 
sweet  Virginia  be  drowned  and  buried?  The  imagination  of 
Richardson  and  Saint  Pierre  was  exhausted — granted ;  but 
young  writers  could  have  sprung  up  to  take  up  the  tale.  It 
was  only  taking  his  wig  off  Sir  Charles  and  making  him  put  by 
his  sword— or  dressing  Virginia  a  little  differently,  and  sending 
Paul  off  for  her  in  a  life-boat.  Bless  you,  I  would  have  spun  it 
on  for  ever  so  long?  That  matchless  gentleman  should  have 
wedded  no  Miss  Byron  had  I  been  free,  and  no  dark,  envious 
earth  should  cover  Virginia's  angel-face.  It  is  too  bad  that 
imaginary  beings  should  be  subject  to  the  ills  of  mortality.  No 
— no  ;  there  should  never  be  a  last  chapter  to  a  love-story  if  I 
had  my  way,  Mr.  Dermot.  It  should  go  on  forever  and  ever 
— as  it  will  in  heaven,  I  trust.  But  why  do  you  never  read 
love-stories,  Mr.  Dermot?  Do  you  like  the  practice  better  than 
the  theory  ? " 

"  You  have  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head,  Mrs.  Mush.  I 
like  the  theorv  of  nothing." 

"  Well,  Sybil— why,  where  is  Sybil  ?  " 

"  Sybil  is  gone,  Mrs.  Mush.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  when 
you  spoke  of  sending  off  Paul  for  Virginia  in  a  life-boat,  Sybil 
put  down  her  work  and  left  the  room  in  silent  indignation." 

"  She  likes  the  drowning.  Youth  is  cruel,  Mr.  Dermot — 
give  it  dark  endings,  and  graves,  and  mopings,  kill  all — that  is 
youth's  way,  and  Sybil  is  pale  and  altered.  I  am  afraid  she  is 
fretting  for  that  lover  of  hers." 

Mr.  Dermot  looked  scornful. 

"  Fretting  for  him  !  "  he  said.  "  Sybil  has  too  much 
sense." 

"Oh,  I  do  not  think  her  inconsolable ;  but  youth  is  silly, 
Mr.  Dermot," 

"Sybil  is  not  silly,  Mrs.  Mush.  She  is  full  of  sense  when 
she  pleases;  and  she  has  too  refined  a  taste  to  go  on  regretting 
that  man." 

"  Oh,  I  never  questioned  her  taste,"  said  Mrs.  Mush,  smiling; 
"and  I  have  no  doubt  that  her  next  venture  will  show  more 
judgment,  and  be  more  fortunate  than  the  first." 
13 


290  sybil's  second  love. 

"I  hope  so,"  was  the  composed  reply.  "Good-morning, 
Mrs.  Mush.     I  must  leave  you." 

"  A  pair  of  simpletons  !  "  thought  Mrs.  Mush  ;  "  as  if  I  did 
not  know  what  was  coming." 

Mrs.  Mush  was  a  great  reader  of  love's  symptoms,  and  she 
had  for  some  days  past  seen  what  she  called  "  love  incipient " 
in  Mr.  Dermot's  eye.  lie  might  not  know  it,  but  Mrs.  Mush, 
the  wise  leech,  knew  it  for  him,  and  as  he  was  much  in  her 
favor,  she  neither  wished  to  cross  him,  nor  to  deprive  Sybil  of 
what  Mrs.  Mush  called  a  good  chance.  Moreover,  she  was  like 
Sancho  Panza — she  liked  a  good  love-story  of  all  things,  and 
here  was  one  pretty,  good,  and  true,  ready-made  for  her. 

"  Poor  things  !  "  she  thought,  "  let  them  be  comforted  if 
they  can.  I  know  Mr.  Kennedy  is  married  to  .that  Miss  Cains, 
with  her  white  teeth,  and  I  do  believe  Mr.  Dermot  had  an  eye 
after  the  false  lady.  Let  Sybil  comfort  him,  and  let  him  com- 
fort Sybil." 


•-♦♦♦-- 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

Mr.. Dermot  was  walking  along  the  beach  with  downcast 
eyes'.  Sybil's  light  footsteps  made  no  noise  on  the  sand,  and  he 
neither  saw  nor  heard  her  till  she  stood  by  his  side. 

"  Why,  you  little  mermaid,"  he  said,  "  did  you  come  out  of 
the  sea  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  Sybil,  gravely. 

"No!  and  you  deny  it,  as  much  as  to  say,  'I  might  have 
come  out  of  the  sea  if  I  chose,  but  I  did  not.'  Well,  Sybil,  you 
are  but  a  little  pale  spirit  of  the  sea,  for  I  will  not  call  you  a 
mermaid.     Ah  !  when  will  you  get  back  your  roses  ? " 

Sybil  looked  at  him  wistfully.  He  was  very  kind,  and 
spoke  very  kindly,  but  how  far  apart  they  stood,  on  shores  as 
remote  as  their  feelings  were  different.  She  loved  him  very 
much — infinitely,  it  seemed  to  her,  but  without  hope  or  desire. 
His  indifference  had  made  her  passionless.  She  had  no  thought 
of  his  love  for  her  as  a  possible  event.  She  had  scarcely  ever 
allowed  herself  to  wish  for  it,  and  now,  though  he  was  free, 
though  he  was  always  praising  and  admiring  her  in  some  way 
or  other,  she  could  listen  to  his  praises  and  meet  his  look  with 


sybil's  second  love.  201 

sad  and  unmoved  gravity.  He  meant  nothing,  and  she  felt 
nothing.  Mr.  Dermot  was  struck  with  her  serious  aspect. 
Was  this  the  childish  Sybil  of  a  few  months  back?  That  pale 
young  face  had  lost  its  sunny,  open  meaning,  and  got,  instead, 
the  sad  wisdom  of  years. 

"  Will  you  walk  or  sit  down  ? "  he  asked  after  awhile. 

Sybil  perferred  walking,  so  they  paced  the  sandy  beach  side 
by  side.  A  gray  sky  bent  over  a  gray  sea,  with  streaks  of  shin- 
ing silver.  Rippling  waves,  so  soft  that  they  scarcely  seemed 
to  advance,  gently  beat  the  yellow  shore  with  a  steady,  en- 
croaching step.  The  wind  was  still,  and  clouds  of  a  deep  blu- 
ish gray  veiled  the  extreme  points  of  the  winding  coast. 

"  There  is  a  divine  calmness  in  such  days,  Sybil,"  said  Mr. 
Dermot,  speaking  first.  "  Sunshine,  green  fields,  and  blue  sky 
perplex  grief  and  vex  the  mind.  This  sullen  sky,  this  vast,  calm 
sea  soothe  a  troubled  heart.  Life  is  short,  they  say,  and  full  of 
weariness,  but  we  are  great  and  patient.  Nothing  frets  us  out 
of  our  gloomy  serenity.     We  bear  and  forbear — be  as  we  are." 

Sybil  stood  still. 

"Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said,  "you  have  a  new  grief  to  tell  me." 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "Your  father  is  coming  home  to-day. 
I  know  it  by  Leblond,  the  foreman,  to  whom  he  wrote  a  few 
lines — a  business  order." 

And  he  does  not  write  to  me,"  said  Sybil. 

"  Sybil,  he  wishes  to  take  you  by  surprise ;  that  is  the  mean- 
ing of  his  silence." 

"  Well,"  said  Sybil  after  a  pause,  "  I  must  bear  with  it — I 
knew  it  was  coining — you  have  something  else  to  tell  me,  Mr. 
Dermot  ? " 

"  No,  Sybil,  that  is  all  I  know." 

"  Yes,  but  you  have  something  else  to  tell  me — I  came  here 
for  that." 

"  Sybil,  will  you  not  have  trouble  enough  on  your  mind 
without  my  adding  to  it? — these  are  sad,  very  sad  revelations 
for  youth,  and  you  are  still  so  young,"  he  pityingly  added. 

"  The  last  year  has  made  me  old  in  sorrow,  Mr.  Dermot ; 
you  need  not  spare  me.  Nothing  will  surprise,  and  few  things 
can  grieve  me  now." 

Mr.  Dermot  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  took  out  a  slip  of 
paper,  which  he  placed  in  Sybil's  hand.  It  was  in  the  hand- 
writing of  Blanche  Cains,  a  mere  scrawl,  on  which  all  Sybil  saw 
was,  "Johnson  and  Co.,  Quebec — the  Mountain  Fairy." 


292  sybil's  second  love. 

"You  can  make  nothing  of  this,"  he  said,  taking  it  hack 
from  her;  "and  yet,  Sybil,  this  slip  of  paper,  which  I  picked 
up  when  the  man  moved  the  furniture  out  of  Mrs.  Kennedy's 
room,  is  the  key  to  a  mystery.  You  remember  the  letter  that 
sent  me  off  so  suddenly?  Well,  I  had  time,  just  time  before 
going  on  board,  to  call  on  the  supposed  writer  of  that  letter, 
and  I  learned  that  it  was  a  forgery.  You  now  know  why  I  did 
not  go  Canada. " 

Sybil  seemed  awestruck. 

"  She  forged  it,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  My  dear,  she  knew  we  were  uneasy  about  these  Johnsons 
— she  knew  the  Mountain  Fairy  sailed  on  such  a  day,  and  she 
wanted  me  to  be  out  of  the  way  till  she  was  married.  '  After 
that,'  she  thought,  '  I  can  brave  it  out.' " 

"  And  she  wrote  that  letter? " 

"  No — here  it  is — it  is  a  man's  hand,  and  bears  no  resem- 
blance to  her  writing.     Miss  Cains  has  a  brother." 

"A  brother!  "  interrupted  Sybil;  "no,  Mr.  Dermot,  she  has 
no  brother." 

"Yes,  she  has — only  she  did  not  tell  you  so.  Miss  Cains 
can  keep  a  secret,  and  she  has  no  cause  to  be  proud  of  that 
young  man.  God  forgive  me  if  I  wrong  him,  Sybil,  but  I  con- 
scientiously believe  Mr.  Reginald  Cains  to  be  his  sister's  tool 
and  accomplice.  We  were  blind,  too,  and  without  suspicion, 
else  some  slight  tokens  might  have  enlightened  us.  The  writ- 
ing, though  like,  is  yet  too  different  to  bear  comparison.  The 
paper  on  which  it  is  written  is  that  of  the  firm  ;  but  not  of  the 
usual  size.  This  was  some  sheet  used  for  some  purpose  or  other, 
and  from  which  the  bottom  has  been  torn — look  at  it,  you  will 
see  that  it  has  been  clipped  by  scissors — depend  upon  it,  Sybil, 
this  sheet  was  abstracted  from  our  papers  here,  and  went  back 
to  London  to  come  once  more  to  Saint  Vincent.  Another  token 
was  this:  the  envelope  is  a  common  one,  not  the  blue-wove 
with  the  name  and  the  address  of  the  firm  on  the  seal.  Now, 
I  see  all  this ;  but  then  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment  neither  your 
father  nor  I  saw  any  thing.  He  was  glad  to  have  me  out  of  the 
way,  and  it  was  deliverance  for  me  to  go  too.  We  were  puppets 
in  her  hands,  Sybil,  and  now  she  is  rejoicing  over  her  skill  and 
our  folly.  You  look  amazed  and  startled.  My  poor  little  Syb- 
il, did  you  think  her  incapable  of  it?  Wonder  at  nothing,  and 
be  on  your  guard." 

"  And  you,"  said  Sybil,  drawing  close  to  him,  and  looking 
up  in  his  lace. 


sybil's  second  love.  293 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  on  my  guard  too.  She  will  try  to  harm 
ine,  Sybil,  and  I  could  tell  you  beforehand  from  what  direction 
her  arrow  will  fly.  There  is  just  one  little  dark  spot  in  yon 
calm  horizon.  The  storm  is  there,  Sybil,  and  it  will  come  here 
from  that  faint  speck.  Even  so  will  her  latent  hatred  bide  its 
hour  and  take  its  course." 

"  Mr.  Dermot,  what  will  she  do — what  will  she  attempt  ?  " 

Mr.  Dermot  was  silent. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you — Sybil,  it  is  not  right  that  I  should  do 
so ;  but  have  you  ever  spoken  to  her  about  Mr.  Smith,  and  has 
she  ever  questioned  you  ? " 

Sybil  looked  startled  and  frightened. 

"Is  Mr.  Smith  in  it?"  she  stammered. 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,  Sybil." 

"  Yes,  she  did  question  me — but  you  know  yourself  I  knew 
nothing." 

"  She  made  something  out  of  it,  Sybil,  but  let  it  be.  It  will 
be  well  for  her  and  for  us  all  if  she  means  no  harm." 

He  looked  composed,  but  grave.  Sybil's  heart  sank,  and 
she  sickened  with  fear. 

"  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said,  "  is  there  no  way  of  keeping  that 
Mr.  Smith  quiet  ?  " 

"None,  Sybil,"  he  replied,  a  little  ironically.  "  Quiet  him, 
indeed !  " 

"But  why  should  he  abet  her?" 

"  Why,  indeed ;  but  he  will,  as  surely  as  that  tide  will  flow 
in  to-night." 

"I  always  detested  that  man,"  cried  Sybil  vehemently. 

"  Do  not,  child,  he  is  harmless  if  she  will  but  be  wise." 

"  And  if  she  will  not,  Mr.  Dermot  ? " 

"  And  if  she  will  not,  there  is  nothing  but  trouble  in  store 
for  us  all." 

"  And  can  no  one  meddle — can  no  one  advise  or  interfere  ?  " 

"  No  one,"  he  gravely  answered.  "  For  to  advise  would  be 
to  tell  her  what' she  has  no  right  to  know — and,  Sybil,  she  is  not 
good  enough  to  be  trusted.  "No,  even  though  it  is  her  interest 
and  her  duty  to  be  mute,  she  must  know  nothing.  Her  igno- 
rance -4s  our  only  safeguard.  Her  knowledge  might  be  our 
perdition." 

"  Then  it  is  a  secret,"  said  Sybil. 

"It  is,  as  you  say,  a  secret.  A  secret  in  your  father's  life 
and  in  mine.     It  is  known  to  few,  but  yet  it  may  prove  to  be 


294  sybil's  second  love. 

known  to  too  many.  She  may  never  get  hold  of  it,  or  she  may 
grasp  it  at  once,  and  sacrifice  every  thing  to  a  double  revenge, 
Let  her,  Sybil— let  her !  " 

Sybil  longed  to  question,  but  did  not  dare  to  do  so.  There 
was,  apart  from  his  words,  something  in  Mr.  Dermot's  face  which 
silenced  her.  She  could  not  understand,  or  even  attempt  to  gain 
its  meaning ;  but  it  enjoined  her  to  be  mute,  and  forbade  her  to 
hope  for  a  reply. 

"  And  so,"  she  said  pitifully,  "  she  will  do  all  she  can  against 
you,  and  I  must  look  on  and  see  it.  Mr.  Dermot,  will  my  fa- 
ther let  her?" 

"Your  father,  Sybil,  will  let  her  do  whatever  she  pleases 
till  she  betrays  herself — as  she  must  in  the  end.  But  in  the  mean 
while,  do  you  think  I  will  tell  him  that  I  was  -to  have  married 
his  wife,  and  that  she  sent  me  off  to  Canada  to  get  rid  of  me  ? 
Sybil,  the  day  your  father  knows  that  Blanche  Cains  was  my 
betrothed,  our  friendship  is  at  an  end.  Even  as  it  is,  I  know 
that  before  a  year  is  out  she  will  have  made  us  bitter  foes.  Let 
her,  I  will  not  help  her  to  it.  And  if  you  care  for  me,  Sybil, 
be  silent.  Do  not  speak — do  not  hint.  Never,  whatever  you 
may  learn  or  see,  never  attempt  to  speak  to  your  father." 

Sybil  sat  down  on  a  ledge  of  rock,  and  looking  at  the 
waves  which  almost  touched  her  feet,  she  longed  to  be  at  rest 
in  their  quiet  floating  world. 

"  I  wish  I  were  dead  ! "  she  said,  passionately,  and  suddenly 
raising  her  voice,  "  I  wish  I  were  dead  !  The  friend  I  loved  is 
your  enemy  and  mine.  She  is  worse,  she  is  base  and  treacher- 
ous, and  I  must  loathe  what  I  once  cherished  so  fondly  ;  and  to 
crown  all,  she  is  coming  home  to-day  my  father's  wife.  I  wish 
I  were  dead,  Mr.  Dermot." 

"  And  I  wish  I  had  told  you  nothing,"  he  said,  reproach- 
fully. "  You  said  I  did  not  trust  you,  Sybil,  and  see  what  my 
trust  has  done." 

"And  can  I  help  it?"  cried  Sybil.  "  Can  I  help  it?  Do 
you  think  I  care  nothing  for  you,  and  that  I  can  think  of  her 
hatred  being  fastened  upon  you,  and  not  feel  it?  I  tell  you, 
.Mr.  Dermot,  to  be  on  your  guard — I  tell  you  so  again  and 
again.  I  remember  words  which  she  dropped,  and  which  sicken 
me  now.  Oh  !  I  wish  I  were  dead  in  that  salt  water  there,  roll- 
ing  with  the  waves  like  that  tangled  mass  of  sea-weed,  and 
feeling  no  more  than  it  feels." 

"  Sybil !  Sybil !  if  you  care  for  me,  never  speak  so,"  he 


sybil's  second  love.  295 

said,  in  a  tone  full  of  concern.  "  Never  look  as  you  look  now, 
so  desperate  and  pale,  or  you  will  make  me  hate  Blanche  Cains 
a  little  too  much.  Depend  upon  it,"  he  added,  more  calmly, 
'  I  shall  not  let  her  come  within  reach  of  me  if  I  can  help  it ;  if  I 
cannot,  I  shall  do  my  best,  and  prevail  against  her,  I  trust.  But, 
Sybil,  if  you  care  for  me,  never  utter  such  wishes  as  that  you 
have  just  spoken.  I  am  not  always  the  slave  of  imagination, 
but  sometimes  that  cruel  power,  far  more  cruel  than  it  is  benefi- 
cent, masters  me.  Just  now  the  curling  foam  of  that  long 
wave  took  a  human  shape  as  it  broke  on  the  beach,  and  I  saw 
you  lying  on  the  sand,  your  white  face  turned  up,  your  hair 
all  tangled  with  sea-weed,  and  the  cold  waves  breaking  over 
you." 

Sybil  tried  to  laugh,  but  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  thought  you  were  prose,  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  not  poetry,  Sybil.  That  is  superstitious  fear,  the 
weakness  which  comes  to  us  whenever  there  is  some  evil  threat- 
ening what  we  love." 

Sybil  bowed  her  head,  and  her  tears  flowed.  Yes,  he  loved 
her,  not  with  man's  passion  for  youth  and  beauty,  but  with 
man's  tenderness  for  the  unprotected  weakness  of  woman.  He 
loved  her,  and  that  love  was  very  sweet,  though  later  he  would 
take  it  from  her  and  give  it  to  some  other  woman,  as  her  father 
had  given  his  to  Blanche  Cains. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ? "  asked  Mr.  Dermot,  bending  toward  her. 

Sybil  looked  up,  and  frankly  replied : — 

"  I  thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Dermot,  for  I  have  a  very 
wayward  temper,  and  many  faults,  and  spite  them  all  you  are 
true  to  me.  You  give  me  all  the  liking  you  can.  I  know 
that  later  you  will  not  be  able  to  do  so.  You  will  have  other 
ties  that  will  absorb  you,  and  leave  me  but  a  little  share  of  your 
good-will ;  but  for  what  you  give  me  now,  I  am  grateful,  and 
when  you  take  it  away  I  shall  not  murmur,  knowing  I  never 
deserved  it." 

Her  frankness  and  humility  touched  him  very  much.  He 
felt  slightly  troubled,  too,  for  a  voice  within  him  seemed  to  say, 
"  Why  wait  and  seek  further,  may  be  to  fare  worse?  Have 
you  not  here  the  two  things  you  prize  most,  truth  and  beauty  i 
Would  you  not  stake  your  life  on  her  guileness,  and  pale  and 
wan  as  she  is  now,  is  she  not  very  sweet  and  fair?  Happiness 
and  love  would  bring  back  all  its  roses  to  her  young  face,  and 
more  than  their  old  light  to  those  dark  eyes  of  hers." 


296  sybil's  second  loye. 

He  looked  at  her  as  lie  thought  so.  He  was  unconscious  of 
the  fixedness  of  his  gaze,  but  Sybil  reddened. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  in,"  she  said. 

"  I  wish  you  would  stay  a  little  while  longer,"  he  said. 
"  We  shall  not  have  such  another  walk  as  this  in  a  hurry,  Sybil. 
Mrs.  Kennedy  is  coming,  and  with  her  adieu  to  liberty  and 
happy  conversation,  and  pleasant  hours.  Ay,  verily  adieu  to 
them  all." 

"  Yes,"  sadly  said  Sybil,  "  adieu  indeed." 

"  And  yet  I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  now  and  then,  Sybil. 
What  shall  be  your  favorite  walk  ?  " 

Sybil  shook  her  head.     She  did  not  know. 

"  Will  you  come  near  by  the  sea  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sometimes,"  hesitatingly  replied  Sybil. 

"  About  this  hour  ?  "  he  suggested. 

Sybil  said  yes  again.  He  spoke  very  quietly,  as  of  a  mat- 
ter of  course.  She  knew  these  were  no  lover's  assignations, 
and  yet  she  had  scarcely  said  ye=,  when  she  resolved  never 
to  come.  What  should  she  do  here  walking  with  him  by 
the  lonely  shore?  She  was  not  his  sister,  his  niece,  or  his 
betrothed,  and  she  must  live  under  the  eye  of  a  woman  who 
knew  her  secret.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  similar  thoughts 
occurred  to  Mr.  Dermot.     He  frowned,  and  stood  still. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  we  must  not  come  here  to  meet,  Sybil. 
I  forget  Mrs.  Kennedy.  We  will  not  give  her  that  triumph. 
We  must  trust  to  chance,  or  say,  rather  to  Providence.  And 
so  you  will  go  ?  " 

""  Yes,"  replied  Sybil ;  "but  I  will  not  go  to  the  house.  I 
cannot  bear  to  see  her  arrive.  I  will  go  and  spend  the  day 
with  Aunt  Glyn.     Pray  send  some  one  for  me  this  evening." 

"  I  shall  go  for  you  myself,  Sybil ;  but  I  shall  not  go  up,  of 
course." 

Thus  they  parted.  As  she  entered  the  house  alone,  Sybil 
met  Mrs.  Mush.  Now,  though  that  lady  liked  a  love-story,  she 
thought  Sybil  had  been  too  long  away,  and  objected  to  this 
chapter. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  rather  gravely,  "  where  have  yon  been 
all  this  time  ?  " 

"  Down  by  the  sea,"  replied  Sybil. 

"  To  take  a  lonely  walk  ?  "  suggested  Mrs.  Mush,  very  point- 
edly. 

Accusation  always  made  Sybil  strong.  Her  face  cleared  as 
she  quickly  replied : 


sybil's  second  love.  297 

"  No,  I  found  Mr.  Dermot  there." 

Her  frankness  disconcerted  Mrs.  Mush.  She  looked  at  her 
wondering  and  perplexed,  then  said,  honestly  : 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Sybil.  Sometimes  you  seem 
very  shy  with  that  Mr.  Dermot,  who  is  a  wonderfully  cool  and 
easy  gentleman,  and  now  you  have  had  a  walk  with  him  by  the 
sea-side — and  you  say  so,  too." 

"  Why  should  I  hide  it,  Mrs.  Mush  ?  " 

"You  do  well  not  to  hide  it;  but  you  would  do  better 
not  to  have  gone.  I  have  no  actual  authority  over  you,  but 
your  father  is  not  aware  that  Mr.  Dermot  is  here;  and  I 
think  it  strange  he  should  wish  to  have  private  interviews  with 
you.  His  suit  is  not  one  likely  to  fail,  I  believe,  with  either 
father  or  daughter." 

"  And  so,  Mrs.  Mush,"  sadly  said  Sybil,  "  you  think  this 
was  a  love-meeting  ?  You  think  Mr.  Dermot  is  the  man  to 
make  me  do  such  a  thing,  and  I  the  girl  to  do  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mush  looked  fairly  bewildered. 

"  Why,  child,"  she  said,  "  if  it  is  not  love,  what  is  it  ?  Not 
business." 

"  It  is  sorrow,  sorrow,"  said  Sybil,  looking  so  woe-begone 
that  Mrs.  Mush  could  not  but  believe  her.  "  And,  oh !  Mrs. 
Mush,"  she  added,  "  do  not  think  he  cares  for  me  in  that  way. 
He  never  thought  of  such  a  thing — never  !  Mr.  Dermot  thinks 
me  ever  so  young,  and  himself  ever  so  old.  I  am  quite  a  little 
girl,  and  he  is  my  grandfather,  at  the  very  least." 

"  And  he.  is  not  making  love  to  you  ? "  skeptically  said  Mrs. 
Mush. 

"  No,"  indignantly  replied  Sybil ;  "  he  never  did — he  never 
will." 

"  Well,  I  never  was  so  mistaken  in  all  my  life — why,  I 
thought  you  were  engaged.  Well,  well,  I  do  not  mean  to  dis- 
tress you — I  shall  not  say  another  word  ;  but,  my  dear,  take 
care — you  are  not  so  very  young,  nor  is  he  so  very  old,  and  I 
do  not  at  all  like  sea-side  meetings  between  a  pretty  girl  like 
you  and  a  handsome  gentleman  like  Mr.  Dermot." 

"  I  do  not  intend  ever  going  again,"  replied  Sybil. 

She  looked  very  grave  and  indignant,  but  her  gravity  and 
indignation  failed  to  convince  Mrs.  Mush.  She  did  not  doubt 
Sybil's  word  ;  but  for  all  that,  she  was  as  sure  love  was  coming, 
as  we  are  sure  the  sun  is  going  to  rise  when  we  see  the  blush  of 
dawn.  "  A  pair  of  simpletons,"  she  thought  again  ;  and  though 
13* 


298  Sybil's  second  love. 

she  could  not  approve  of  sea-side  meetings,  she  felt  ready  to 
tolerate  all  else  that  could  make  the  course  of  true  love  run 
more  smooth. 


CHAPTER     XXXIX. 

Sybil  was  gone  to  Miss  Glyn's,  and  Mrs.  Mush  had  driven 
over  to  Saint  Vincent  on  business.  Mr.  Dermot  sat  alone  in 
the  library.  There  was  nothing  and  no  one  to  disturb  his 
thoughts.  He  took  down  a  book  and  read  awhile  ;  then  he  put 
by  the  volume,  and  looked  his  future  in  the  face. 

That  future  wore  no  pleasant  aspect,  but  apart  from  the  fact 
that  he  knew  how  to  endure,  Mr.  Dermot  could  contemplate 
it  with  composure.  It  was  sure  to  be  dark  and  troublesome, 
but  it  was  as  sure  to  be  brief.  The  same  house  could  not  long 
hold  him  and  his  enemy,  and  whichever  was  vanquished  must 
needs  leave.  He  had  told  Sybil  but  half  his  troubles,  after  all. 
That  sad  portion  of  his  life  in  which  Mr.  Smith  had  played  his 
part  he  had  kept  in  the  shade.  He  had  concealed  it  from 
Blanche  Cains  in  the  days  when  she  was  his  betrothed  wife,  and 
he  would  not  reveal  to  Sybil  that  which  she  had  no  right  to 
know.  It  would  only  distress  her,  and  could  serve  no  useful 
purpose. 

"  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Kennedy  knows  any  thing  !  "  he  thought ; 
"and  knowing  it,  how  she  will  act?  Poor  James!  he  has 
brought  the  enemy  into  the  heart  of  the  citadel,  and  there  is  no 
expelling  her  now.  She  is  there  forever,  and  holds  him  fast. 
Woe  to  him  if  he  ever  displeases  her!  His  charmer  will  turn 
tyrant  and  make  him  her  slave.  How  he  will  hate  her  then, 
and  how  she  will  hate  him  when  she  knows  all !  " 

There  is  something  loathsome  in  the  hatred  of  man  and 
wife ;  and  though  for  many  reasons  Mr.  Dermot's  friendship  for 
Sybil's  father  had  lost  its  fervor,  though  the  married  life  of 
Blanche  Cains  was  naught  to  him,  he  could  not  linger  over  the 
thought  of  their  future  strife  without  pain.  Tbe  night  was 
calm  and  mild ;  he  left  the  library,  and  went  out  into  the  clois- 
ter to  seek  there  the  soothing  and  benignant  influence  of  air  and 
sky. 

The  light  which  he  had  left  burning  behind  him  poured  its 
pale  golden  rays  into  the  silent  cloister,  and  lit  up  one  of  its 


sybil's  second  love.  299 

arched  galleries.  A  misty  moon  looked  down  with  a  troubled 
mien  on  the  stone  cross,  and  a  few  stars  pierced  the  clouds  and 
glimmered  faintly  in  their  far  region.  Mr.  Dermot  had  seen 
finer  nights  than  this — nights  of  full- orbed  moon  and  planet?, 
and  a  thousand  glittering  worlds  ;  but  Nature's  power  over  us 
lies  in  our  own  mood — not  in  her  aspect.  When  she  wants  us 
she  calls  us — in  a  moment  we  are  her  slaves,  and  yield  ourselves 
to  the  mighty  goddess. 

Blanche  Cains,  her  falsehood,  her  enmity,  the  weakness  of 
Mr.  Kennedy's  friendship,  Sybil's  sorrows  and  wrongs,  were  all 
forgotten  by  Mr.  Dermot  now.  As  he  paced  the  quiet  cloister 
he  felt  like  one  who  hears  from  afar  the  tumult  and  the  roar  of 
troubled  waters,  and  whom  their  loud  murmur  only  soothes  to 
a  sense  of  deeper  rest.  Thus  remote  were  now  to  him  his  life 
aud  its  cares — a  tale  in  which  he  had  no  part.  But  that  lull 
in  active  life  rarely  endures.  Every  human  existence  is  a  ro- 
mance, if  not  in  action  at  least  in  feeling — a  romance  which 
often  has  but  one  reader ;  and  it  would  be  very  sweet  if  every 
now  aud  then  we  could  turn  a  page  in  our  own  book  and 
calmly  read  that  wonderful  story.  But  it  may  not  be  ;  for  a  mo- 
ment we  may  stand  aloof,  like  Mr.  Dermot,  and  survey  our  des- 
tiny as  something  in  which  we  have  no  part — for  a  moment, 
and  no  more.  Soon  the  outward  world  calls  us  forth  from  that 
secret  stronghold  of  our  inner  life — forth  into  the  strife  and  un- 
rest which  flow  like  a  stormy  sea  around  that  calm  isle. 

Mr.  Dermot  had  not  long  enjoyed  the  repose  of  that  calm 
spot  and  quiet  hour,  when  a  far  sound  of  wheels  and  jingling 
bells,  which  rapidly  grew  nearer,  warned  him  that  the  bride 
was  coming  home.  He  did  not  think  it  needful  to  go  and  re- 
ceive Mr.  Kennedy,  but  neither  did  he  wish  to  shun  meeting 
him  and  his  wife.  So  he  stayed  in  the  cloister,  and  waited, 
there  till  they  should  cross  it  to  reach  the  house. 

Presently  the  post-chaise  drew  up  at  the  gates  of  Saint  Vin- 
cent, and  Narcisse  and  Denise,  each  armed  with  a  lantern,  flew 
to  open.  In  the  stillness  of  the  night  Mr.  Dermot  could  hear 
Mr.  Kennedy's  voice  saying,  "  Take  care,  my  love — this  way." 

"  And  Ralph — where  is  Ralph  ? "  asked  die  voice  of  Blanche 
Cains. 

"I  am  here,  ma'am,"  replied  another  voice — a  woman's,  and 
rather  a  vulgar  voice  it  was. 

"She  has  brought  home  a  lady's-maid,"  thought  Mr.  Der- 
mot— "  poor  little  Sybil,  you  never  had  one  !  " 


300  sybil's  second  love. 

"  I  wish  you  would  see  to  my  bonnet-box,"  continued  Mrs. 
Kennedy — "  I  am  sure  the  things  are  awfully  crushed,  Ralph." 

Ralph  hoped  not — she  had  been  so  very  particular  in  the 
packing. 

"  Well,  but  see  to  it,"  pursued  Mrs.  Kennedy,  whose  voice 
was  drawing  nearer. 

The  door  which  led  from  the  court  she  was  then  crossing  to 
the  cloister,  opened  as  she  spoke.  A  dark  figure — Denise's, 
probably — appeared,  bearing  a  lantern,  and  behind  her  Mr.  Der- 
mot  saw  two  other  figures,  one  of  which  moved  with  a  loud 
rustling  of  silk,     He  stood  still  near  the  cross  quietly  waiting. 

"  It  seems  there  is  no  one  here,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy  to  his 
wife ;  "  but  there  is  a  light  in  the  library — who  is  there,  I 
wonder? — Sybil,  perhaps,  or  Mrs.  Mush." 

They  were  moving  toward  the  library  window  to  look  in, 
when  Mrs.  Kennedy  caught  sight  of  Mr.  Dermot's  figure. 

"Who's  that?"  she  whispered,  pressing  her  husband's  arm. 

Mr.  Kennedy  took  the  lantern  from  the  hand  of  Denise,  and 
raised  it,  whilst  Mr.  Dermot  came  forward.  For  a  while  no  one 
spoke.  The  light  that  flashed  across  their  three  faces  showed  in 
each  a  different  meaning.  Mr.  Dermot's  was  composed,  and 
slightly  ironical;  Mrs.  Kennedy  seemed  to  have  seen  a  ghost,  so 
pale  and  bewildered  did  she  look ;  and  Mr.  Kennedy  was  fairly 
confounded. 

"Why,  Dermot,"  he  cried,  "I  thought  vou  were  in 
Canada  !  " 

"  I  did  not  go — tbere  was  no  need  for  the  journey.  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it  to-morrow." 

"And  you  were  here  all  the  time." 

"Here,  and  in  England.  I  there  heard  of  your  marriage, 
and  did  not  think  it  needful  to  trouble  you  with  business." 

Mr.  Kennedy  laughed  rather  a  forced  laugh. 

"  I  must  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Kennedy — an  old  acquaint- 
ance under  a  new  name." 

Mr.  Dermot  bowed.  Mrs.  Kennedy  gave  him  a  calm,  dis- 
tant look  of  her  blue  eyes,  and  shivered  slightly. 

"  Let  us  go  in,  my  love,"  said  her  husband.  "  Well,  Der- 
mot, old  fellow,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  here  again — where's  Sybil, 

though  r 

"  Sybil  is  at  Miss  Glyn's,"  said  Mr.  Dermot,  "  and  it  is  time 
I  should  go  and  fetch  her,"  he  added,  looking  at  his  watch. 
lie  bowed  again,  and  walked  away  at  a  quick  pace. 


sybil's  second  love.  303 

"  What  a  chill  night !  "  said  Mrs.  Keunedy,  wrapping  her- 
self up  in  a  costly  shawl ;  <c  and  what  an  odd  man  that  Mr. 
Dermot  is,  dear.  He  never  wished  us  joy,  nor  any  thing,  but 
stood  there  like  a  stick.  I  don't  think  I  ever  was  in  his  good 
graces,  do  you  know  ? " 

She  laughed,  with  a  pretty  scorn  of  Mr.  Dermot's  favor. 
But  Mr.  Kennedy  said  not  a  word.  He  was  puzzled  and 
annoyed.  Why  was  Mr.  Dermot  here  in  Saint  Vincent,  instead 
of  being  in  Canada  ?  Why  was  his  manner  so  cold  and  severe  ? 
Why  had  he  surveyed  him  and  his  wife  with  that  austere 
gravity  ?  Was  Mr.  Kennedy  the  first  man  of  fifty  who  had 
married  a  young  and  handsome  girl  ? — and  what  was  his  mar- 
riage to  his  friend  ? 

"Decidedly  that  is  it,"  pursued  Mrs.  Kennedy,  as  they 
entered  the  house  together;  "  Mr.  Dermot  took  a  dislike  to  me, 
and  is  vexed  to  have  me  here.     Very  provoking,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  A  dislike  to  you,  my  love  ? "  replied  her  husband,  looking 
down  with  mingled  fondness  and  pride  at  her  blooming  face — 
"  why,  if  I  remember  aright,  Dermot  admired  you." 

"Oh!  no — not  he,"  quickly  said  Mrs.  Kennedy. 

She  spoke  in  a  short,  vexed  tone,  with  a  little  irritated 
laugh,  which  did  not  escape  her  husband's  ear. 

"  Indeed,  I  thought  better  of  his  taste,"  he  replied,  gayly. 

To  all  appearance  he  was  unmoved.  But  there  are 
thoughts,  at  first  light  and  passing,  -which  come  to  us  we  know 
not  why  or  how.  We  scarcely  heed  them,  for  they  slumber  as 
yet,  and  their  murmurings  are  low,  but  they  are  with  us.  They 
grow  with  daily,  though  hidden  strength;  they  feed  on  food 
we  seek  for  them  with  unconcious  eagerness  till  the  day 
comes,  when  a  word,  a  look,  waken  them  into  sudden  life, 
and  then,  when  they  turn  round  and  sting  us — then  do  we 
feel,  for  the  first  time,  it  Avas  a  serpent  we  nourished  in  our 
bosom.  Even  such  a  thought  entered  Mr.  Kennedy's  heart 
as  he  heard  his  wife  reply,  "  Oh !  no — not  he,"  in  that  voice 
of  irritated  vanity. 

Mr.  Dermot,  in  the  mean  while,  went  on  for  Sybil,  and  hav- 
ing sent  her  in  word  that  he  was  waiting,  he  took  a  few  turns 
up  and  down  the  road  that  passed  in  front  of  Miss  Glyn's  abode. 

Great  had  been  Miss  Glyn's  amazement  and  indignation  on 
learning  the  news  ;  but  her  wrath,  indeed,  was  stronger  than  her 
surprise.  She  remembered  having  foretold  that  Blanche  Cains 
was  setting  her  cap  at  some  one,  and  she  forgot  that  Mr.  Dermot, 
and  not  Mr.  Kennedy,  had  been  the  individual  designated. 


302  sybil's  secoxd  love. 

Sybil,  whose  sad  heart  had  room  for  very  few  feelings  now, 
the  great  one  of  her  grief  excepted,  heard,  and  by  her  silence 
assented.  She  did  not  care  for  contradiction  or  for  argument, 
she  did  not  even  care  for  truth,  so  she  listened  in  dull,  moody 
silence  to  Miss  Glyn's  dark  triumph  at  her  own  sagacity.  For 
it  was  singular  how  quickly  the  recollection  that  Mr.  Dermot 
and  not  Mr.  Kennedy  had  been  Miss  Cains's  intended  victim, 
wore  away,  and  how  surely  the  contrary  of  this  past  prophecy 
now  grew  up  in  its  stead,  and,  like  many  an  upstart,  made  its 
way  good  and  prevailed. 

"  I  told  you  you  should  have  struck  the  letter  S  from  her 
name,"  said  Miss  Glyn. 

And  Sybil  remembered  fond  embraces,  moments  of  passion- 
ate confidence  and  affection,  wdien  the  two  girls  were  as  one, 
and  had  but  one  heart. 

"  I  told  vou  she  was  thinking:  of  vour  father  all  the  time, 
and  stayed  at  home  whilst  we  went  to  parties,"  said  Miss  Glyn  ; 
and  Sybil's  heart  turned  back  to  bygone  days,  when  she  lay 
tossing  on  a  sick  bed,  and  Blanche  watched  by  her,  all  love  and 
fondness  then. 

"  You  will  have  to  come  and  live  with  me,"  persisted  Miss 
Glvn  ;  and  this  time,  Sybil  heeding  her,  looked  up  and  said : 
"  "  Why  so  ?  " 

"  Why  so? — why  so  ? — have  you  no  spirit  that  you  ask?" 
inquired  Miss  Glyn,  firing  up. 

"  Why  should  I  leave  my  father's  house  ? "  asked  Sybil, 
gravely  :  "  it  is  my  father's  house  after  all — not  hers." 

"  Your  father  has  done  what  he  pleased,"  hotly  said  Miss 
Glyn  ;  "  and  not  what  he  should  have  done  if  he  had  cared  a 
pin  for  you — as  to  that  Mr.  Dermot,  I'll  ne-er  believe  but  he 
was  in  it — her  accomplice,  Sybil — her  accomplice." 

As  Miss  Cains's  accomplice  was  even  then  ringing  at  Miss 
Glyn's  door,  and  Sybil  could  hear  his  voice  inquiring  for  her, 
she  rose  and  prepared  to  go. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  for  ? "  asked  her  aunt,  whose 
hearing  was  not  so  keen  as  the  young  girl's. 

Sybil  was  very  pale,  and  her  hands  shook  as  she  tied  her 
bonnet-strings. 

"  Mr.  Dermot  is  below,  aunt,  and  I  can  guess  why  he  has 
come." 

"  The  happy  pair  have  arrived,  no  doubt ;  now,  Sybil,  don't 
go  and  make  a  fool  of  yourself." 


sybil's  second  love.  303 

Sybil  did  not  answer  this  kind  admonition,  but  hurried 
down-stairs.  She  found  Mr.  Derraot  walking  up  and  down  in 
the  pale  moonlight,  with  rather  restless  steps.  Oh !  how  had  he 
felt  on  seeing  her  again  ? 

He  took  her  arm  in  silence. 
"  Why,  child,  how  you  tremble,'1  he  said. 
"  I  cannot  help  it,  Mr.  Dermot." 
"  Take  heart,  Sybil." 
"  When  did  thev  come,  Mr.  Dermot? " 
"  About  half  an  hour  ago.      Pity  you  were  not  there,  Sybil, 
to  see  the  face  of  the  bride  when  she  saw  me.      But  she  soon 
recovered.     The  assurance  of  some  women  is  incomparable.     On 
my  word,  it  is  grand !     She  gave  me  a  cool  broad  stare  of  those 
blue  eyes  of  hers,  then  looked  at  her  husband,  as  much  as  to  say, 
'  Mr.  Dermot,  I  believe.'     Sybil,  it  is  well  for  me  that  those 
white  teeth  of  hers  did  not  dare  to  bite  just  then,  else  Duessa, 
formerly  Una,  had  not  spared  me.      Take  care  when  she  kisses 
you.     I  would  not  trust  her." 

"  Never  !  never !  "  cried  Sybil,  passionately  ;  "  never,  so  long 
as  I  live,  shall  lips  of  mine  touch  her  cheek ;  never  shall  my 
hand  press  hers.     I  have  no  secret  to  guard,  Mr.  Dermot." 

"  And  thank  Heaven  that  you  have  not,"  he  replied,  in  a 
tone  scarcely  less  vehement  than  her  own ;  "  thank  Heaven, 
Sybil,  that  you  have  no  daily  part  to  act,  no  abhorrent  recollec- 
tions to  stifle  under  smiles,  no  looks  of  detestation  to  veil  under 
looks  of  good-will." 

His  tone  startled  and  frightened  Sybil.  A  cruel  suspicion 
forced  itself  upward  like  some  noxious  serpent,  do  what  she 
would  to  stifle  it  in  its  birth.  Was  this  hatred  of  the  once-loved 
woman  the  subtle  disguise  ofunconquered  affection,  or  the  un- 
avoidable jealousy  of  the  injured  lover  ? 

"  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said,  "  are  you  sure  you  ought  to  remain 
here  ? — are  you  sure  you  ought  not  to  go  away  ? " 

Mr.  Dermot  was  silent  awhile,  then  said  in  a  tone  of  deep 
displeasure, 

"  I  suppose,  Sybil,  your  meaning  is  this :  '  Mr.  Dermot,  are 
you  sure  you  are  not  still  too  fond  of  my  father's  wife  ? '  Sybil, 
I  forgive  you,  but  you  do  not  know  how  cruelly  insulting  is  such 
a  question.  Why,  Sybil,  if  Mrs.  Kennedy  were  not  as  a  stranger 
W  me — nay,  t#n  times  worse  than  a  stranger — I  would  not,  could 
not  stay  more  than  twenty-four  hours  in  the  same  house  with 
her  and  her  husband.      I  would  not,  because  it  would  be  base ; 


304  sybil's  second  loye. 

and  I  could  not,  because  I  have  a  touch  of  Othello  in  me.  I  am 
inclined  to  be  a  jealous  man — not  a  mistrustful  one,  indeed,  but 
I  could  not  see  the  woman  I  loved  loving  another  before  my  face 
— it  would  madden  me.  So  once  for  all,  Sybil,  dismiss  such 
thoughts  from  your  mind — if  we  are  to  be  friends." 

His  tone  was  so  severe  that  it  cut  Sybil  to  the  heart. 

"Do  not  be  hard  upon  me,"  she  entreated;  "I  meant  no 
harm." 

"  Hard  upon  you !  Why,  no,  child,  only  don't  you  be  hard 
npon  me.  I  know  you  don't  like  me  much,  but  I  must  have 
your  esteem." 

She  did  not  like  him  much  !  Had  she,  then,  kept  her  secret 
so  well  ? 

He  resumed  very  composedly  : 

"  When  I  say  you  don't  like  me  much,  I  mean  no  reproach ; 
our  years,  our  tempers,  our  very  natures  are  such  as  not  to  allow 
you  any  strong  affection  for  me.  It  is  very  natural  and  right 
that  I  should  care  more  for  a  dear  little  girl  such  as  you  are, 
than  you,  the  dear  little  girl,  should  care  for  an  old  man  of  the 
world  such  as  I  am." 

Sybil  could  not  bear  this. 

"  But,  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said,  "  I  do  care  for  you — indeed  I 
do,  very  much." 

"  Do  you,  Sybil  ? — well,  I  should  not  have  thought  so.  Your 
friend,  Miss  Cains,  had  another  tale  to  tell — but  1  dare  say  it 
was  all  invention  ;  and  now  take  heart,  for  you  are  going  to  face 
the  evil  enchantress  herself." 

They  stood  at  the  gates,  which,  after  awhile,  Narcisse  came 
and  opened.  They  crossed  the  cloister,  but  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase  Mr.  Dermot  dropped  Sybil's  arm. 

"  You  do  not  come  up  ? "  she  said  faintly. 

"No,  I  am  busy.  Come,  take  heart;  it  must  be  done,  and 
it  will  soon  be  over." 

He  left  her,  and  Sybil  went  up  the  staircase  alone. 


sybil's  second  love.  305 


CHAPTER     XL. 


Mrs.  Mush  was  talking  loud,  and  no  one  heard  Sybil  enter- 
ing the  room.  She  stood  still  near  the  door,  and  looked  at 
them.  Mrs.  Mush  sat  with  her  hack  turned  to  her,  and  she  saw 
her  father's  side-face  only.     Mrs.  Kennedy  she  saw  well. 

The  drawing-room  had  donned  its  new  splendor  to  greet  its 
new  mistress,  and  that  mistress  herself  was  like  a  fair  and  costly 
picture,  worthy  of  this  rich  setting. 

The  bride  sat,  half  leaning  back,  on  a  couch,  and  her  attitude 
was  very  graceful.  Light  wreaths  of  flowers  of  vivid  hues  were 
scattered  on  the  white  cushions  against  which  she  rested.  She 
wore  a  travelling  dress  of  plain  silk,  but  there  was  depth  and 
richness  in  its  folds.  Her  slender  fingers  sparkled  with  rings. 
and  Sybil  caught  the  glitter  of  a  bracelet  on  her  fair  arm.  She 
looked  in  excellent  health,  and  in  high  spirits,  and,  what  wa* 
more,  she  looked  wonderfully  handsome. 

Sybil's  heart  swelled  within  her.  This  was  the  girl  whom 
she  had  brought  to  that  house  poor,  all  but  penniless,  whom  her 
foolish  generosity  and  affection  had  thrust  on  her  father's  notice, 
till  from  indifference  Mr.  Kennedy  had  passed  to  liking,  and 
thence  to  idolatrous  passion.  Sybil  came  forward.  Mrs.  Mush 
ceased  talking,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  gave  a  little  start,  but  Sybil 
did  not  heed  them.  She  went  up  to  her  father,  and  said,  in  a 
low,  measured  tone, 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come  back  so  well,  papa." 
"And  how  are  you,  Pussy?"  he  asked,  giving  her  a  kiss, 
but  scarcely  looking  at  her. 

Sybil  quietly  replied  that  she  was  very  well. 
Mr.  Kennedy  put  on  a  gay  look,  and  said, 
"  I  have  brought  you  back  some  one,  Sybil." 
Sybil  was  mute. 

"  Sybil,  have  you  nothing  to  say  to  Mrs.  Kennedy  ?  "  he 
asked  sharply. 

"  I  hope  Mrs.  Kennedy  had  a  pleasant  journey,"  gravely 
said  Sybil. 

"  Delightful  !  "  replied  Mrs.  Kennedy. 

Mr.  Kennedy  looked  from  his  wife  to  his  daughter,  and 
seemed  perplexed.  They  were  both  very  calm,  and  both  looked 
profoundly  indifferent.  He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket, 
Sybil  thought  it  was  the  present  he  always  brought  her  when  ho 


30G  sybil's  second  love. 

had  been  away,  and  she  waited  to  receive  it.  She  knew  before 
hand  it  would  not  be  worth  much,  but  she  resolved  to  accept 
it  as  thankfully  as  if  it  were  a  costly  gift.  Mr.  Kennedy  drew 
out  a  glittering  smelling-bottle,  and  handed  it  to  his  wife. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  love,"  he  said,  apologetically,  "  I 
had  forgotten  to  return  this  to  you." 

"Is  your  head  better,  dear  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Kennedy,  with 
tender  anxiety. 

"  It  is  quite  well  again,  thank  you,  my  dear/' 

Sybil  turned  away  and  went  to  the  table.  On  her  way 
thitber  she  passed  by  Mrs.  Kennedy.  Sybil  half  bowed.  Her 
step-mother  returned  the  salutation  with  a  cool  bend  of  her  fair 
head,  and  resumed  her  discourse  with  Mrs.  Mush.  It  related 
to  the  drawbacks  of  a  sea-journey,  and  need  not  be  recorded 
here.  Mr.  Kennedy  frowned,  and  was  inclined  to  take  his 
daughter  to  task  forthwith,  but  he  remembered  a  promise  he 
had  made  his  wife,  and  he  forbore.  Leaving  the  sea-journey, 
Mrs.  Kennedy  soon  launched  into  pleasanter  topics. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  to  her  husband,  "  we  must  give  a  ball. 
I  want  to  dance,  and  do  not  want  to  go  out  of  my  own  house 
to  do  so.     When  shall  it  be  ?  " 

Mr.  Kennedy  went  and  sat  by  her  side,  and  smiled  down  in 
her  handsome  face. 

"  I. am  not  going  to  let  you  have  a  ball  just  yet,  my  love," 
he  said.  "  I  must  not  rouse  envy.  I  have  not  forgotten  the 
sensation  you  created  at  Mrs.  Ronald's." 

His  wife  laughed,  and  showed  her  handsome  teeth,  bright 
and  wdiite,  like  a  row  of  pearls. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  frankly,  "  I  got  fairly  hated  that  night ; 
but  I  do  not  fear  hate,  and  you  need  not  fear  envy.  Besides,  I 
want  to  show  people  what  beautiful  things  you  can  give  your 
wife;  and  suppose  I  am  handsome,"  she  added,  "why  should 
you  not  show  the  world  that  you  have  got  a  handsome 
wife  ? " 

"  The  world  knows  it,  my  dear." 

"  Oh  !  but  it  must  both  know  and  remember,"  said  Blanche, 
wilfully ;  "  and  the  world  is  so  very,  very  forgetful,"  she  added, 
with  a  sweet  smile,  "  it  has  such  a  short  memory,  poor  thing. 
It  forgets  beauty,  goodness,  worth,  every  thing,  save  money  ! " 

"  And  why  not  that  too  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Mush. 

"  The  thirsty  man  cannot  forget  his  thirst,  nor  the  hungry 
man  his  hunger,"  replied  Mrs.  Kennedy  ;  "and  so  the  world, 
who  is  both  hungry  and  athirst,  remembers  money  forever." 


sybil's  second  love.  307 

"  You  are  a  wonderful  philosopher,  Mrs.  Kennedy  ! "  said 
Mrs.  Mush,  with  mock  gravity. 

"  Granted !  I  am  any  thing  you  please,  so  I  have  my  ball. 
Now,  dear,  I  must  have  one,  or  I'll  worry  your  life  out  of 
you !  " 

"  I  shall  like  to  be  worried  by  you,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy, smiling. 

Blanche  nodded  sadly,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Mrs.  Mush,"  she  said,  "  you  see  and  hear  my  hard  case. 
I  have  already  learned  to  obey,  and  not  to  have  my  way. 
had  set  my  heart  on  this  ball,  but  the  despot  says  nay,  and  I 
yield.     Be  it  so — I  shall  mope,  then  !  " 

She  put  on  a  look,  and  a  very  becoming  one  it  was,  of  deep 
melancholy.  Mr.  Kennedy  bent  over  her,  fond,  admiring,  evi- 
dently charmed  with  her  flippant  speech,  but  more  charmed 
still  with  her  stately  beauty.  Admiration  was  in  his  looks^  as 
it  was  in  his  heart.  And  Sybil  sat  silent  and  desolate,  seeing 
and  listening,  and  feeling  that  she  was  nothing  and  no  one  in 
her  father's  house. 

She  had  not  thought  she  could  be  forgotten  so  quickly,  nor 
that  her  enemy's  triumph  could  have  been  so  complete.  Her 
lover,  her  friend,  her  father,  had  each  proved  faithless  in  turns, 
not  in  the  same  degree,  but  enough  to  make  her  very  heart 
ache.  Who  would  be  true  to  her  now  ?  To  whom  could  she 
look  in  her  sorrow  ? 

"  I  am  afraid  your  head  aches,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mush, 
bending  a  pitying  glance  on  the  poor  girl. 

"Very  much,"  replied  Sybil. 

Blanche  silently  handed  her  smelling-bottle  to  Mrs.  Mush, 
who  passed  it  to  Sybil.  But  Miss  Kennedy  did  not  touch  the 
sparkling  bauble,  worth  ten  times  in  value  such  a  present  as  her 
father  usually  brought  her.  She  rose  almost  vehemently  from 
her  chair,  and  said,  in  a  short,  broken  voice, 

"  Thank  you — I  shall  go  to  bed." 

She  bade  them  all  a  hurried  good-night,  and  left  the  room. 
Her  father  breathed  a  relieved  sigh  as  the  door  closed  upon 
her.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  see  her  sitting  there  pale  and  cold 
and  altered.  Her  presence  was  a  burden ;  her  absence  a 
relief. 

Sybil's  heart  was  full  to  bursting.  She  stopped  on  the  stair- 
case and  leaned  her  head  on  the  banisters.  A  step  coming 
down  made  her  look  up.     It  was  Mr.  Dermot.     By  the  light  of 


308  sybil's  second  love. 

a  lamp  which  hurned  dimly  against  the  wall,  he  saw  bright 
tears  glittering  on  the  face  she  raised  toward  him.  He  bent 
over  her  with  a  look  full  of  concern,  and  taking  her  two  hands 
in  his,  stroked  them  softly. 

"Sybil,  be  brave,"  he  said  with  deep  pity — "bear  it 
better." 

"  I  cannot,"  sobbed  Sybil—"  I  cannot !  She  has  taken  my 
father  from  me.  There  was  a  time  when  he  came  home  all 
smiles  and  fondness  for  his  child  ;  his  hands  full  of  presents  as 
his  heart  was  full  of  love.  And  this  time  he  brought  me  noth- 
ing— ^e  scarcely  looked  at  me.  I  saw  he  wished  me  out  of  the 
room.     Oh,  Mr.  Dermot !  it  has  come  to  this !  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  hard,"  said  Mr.  Dermot,  gently ;  "  and  children 
do  not  expect  it,  for  they  generally  forget  first.". 

"  No  one  cares  for  me  now  !  "  moaned  Sybil. 

"  Am  I  no  one  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dermot,  reproachfully.  "  And 
have  I  forgotten  you?  "  he  added,  producing  and  raising  to  hei 
face  a  bunch  of  violets,  fresh  and  blue. 

"  Are  they  for  me  ?  "  asked  Sybil,  evidently  pleased. 

"Unless  you  wish  me  to  present  the  bride  with  them,"  he 
dryly  replied,  "  they  are  for  you." 

Sybil  smiled  languidly,  but  did  not  take  the  flowers.  Mr. 
Dermot  deliberately  took  and  held  them  above  the  wall  of  the 
old-fashioned  staircase,  and  said  quietly, 

"  Will  you  have  them  ?     One — two — three  !  " 

As  he  uttered  the  last  word,  and  opened  his  hand  to  drop 
the  flowers,  Sybil  saucily  snatched  them  from  him  and  ran  up 
the  staircase.  He  turned  round  and  raised  a  threatening  fore- 
finger at  her;  but  Sybil  only  gave  him  a  defiant  little  nod  as 
she  looked  round  over  her  shoulder  before  she  entered  her 
room. 

Her  first  act  was  to  place  her  flowers  in  water.  But  the 
pleasure  this  slight  gift  of  his  had  given  her  was  already  over, 
and  behind  it  remained  a  dull,  aching  pain. 

"  He  would  never  be  so  kind,  if  he  knew  how  fond  I  am  of 
hi m,"  she  thought.  "  lie  takes  pity  upon  me  because  I  am  a 
poor,  betrayed  little  creature,  and  because  he  likes  me  in  a  sort 
of  way ;  but  let  another  Blanche  Cains  come  in  his  way,  and 
he  will  fall  in  love  with  her,  and  forget  me  as  if  I  had  never 
been.  If  my  own  father  is  already  cold  and  estranged,  Avhat 
will  Mr.  Dermot  be  ?  " 

There  was  truth  in  these  bitter  thoughts,  but  they  were 


sybil's  second  love.  309 

none  the  less  bitter  for  being  so  true.  Sybil  knew,  too,  that, 
however  hard  her  fate  might  be,  useless  repining  could  only 
make  it  harder  to  bear.  Her  nature,  though  sensitive,  was 
strong,  and  even  in  this,  the  first  vehemence  of  her  grief,  she 
resolved  upon  patience  and  resignation. 

Her  back  was  turned  to  the  door  of  her  room  as  she  stood 
near  her  toilet-table  undressing ;  but  she  heard  the  door  open, 
she  heard,  too,  the  rustle  of  a  silk  dress,  and  in  the  glass  facing 
her  she  saw  Mrs.  Kennedy's  handsome  face. 

Sybil  was  half  undressed,  her  hair  flowed  on  her  bare  arms 
and  shoulders ;  and  on  being  thus  intruded  upon,  she  hastily 
took  up  a  shawl  and  wrapped  it  around  her.  Blanche  Cains 
was  dead,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  a  stranger. 

"  Sybil,"  impetuously  said  her  step-mother  as  she  closed  the 
door,  "  I  come  to  know  whether  it  is  to  be  peace  or  war  be- 
tween us." 

Sybil  turned  round  slowly  till  she  confronted  her. 

"  Neither,"  was  her  laconic  reply. 

"  Neither  !     How  so  ? " 

And  Mrs.  Kennedy  sat  down  unbidden. 

"  You  are  my  father's  wife — I  have  no  intention  of  being  at 
war  with  you.  You  are  my  false  Mend — we  cannot  be  at 
peace." 

"  That  is  candid,  though  not  very  plain,"  said  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy, reddening.  "  Oh,  Sybil — Sybil !  "  she  added,  bursting 
into  tears,  "  is  this  the  love  you  professed  for  me  ? " 

"  Where  is  the  love  you  professed  for  me  ?"  moodily  asked 
Sybil. 

"  Your  father  would  have  married  again,"  said  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy; "you  must  see  and  feel  that.  Why  is  it  such  a  hard- 
ship that  he  took  your  dearest  friend  instead  of  some  stranger  ? 
True,  this  marriage  has  given  me  a  good  and  kind  husband — it 
has  taken  me  out  of  poverty  into  affluence  ;  but  you  are  not 
mean,  Sybil — you  cannot  grudge  me  that.  Is  it  so  long  ago 
that  you  devised  a  hundred  foolish  plans,  the  upshot  of  every 
one  being  that  we  should  never  part  ?  Now  that  in  the  only 
feasible  manner  this  plan  is  fulfilled,  that  we  need  never  sepa- 
rate, you  hate  your  friend.     Why  so,  Sybil — why  so  ?  " 

She  spoke  impetuously,  and  not  without  genuine  emotion — 
it  was  very  plain  that  she  would  rather  be  the  friend  than  the 
step-mother.     But  Sybil  smiled  drearily. 

"  If  there  was  no  harm  in  this,  why  did  you  hide  it  from 


310  sybil's  second  love. 

me?"  she  asked.  "  Since  it  was  so  desirable  for  me  that  you 
should  become  my  father's  wife,  why  did  you  not  become  so 
openly  ?  But  you  were  wronging  me,  so  you  did  not  dare  to 
trust  me.  And  now  you  expect  me  to  forget  the  cruellest 
treachery  that  was  ever  wrought  from  friend  to  friend.  You 
took  advantage  of  m)T  ignorance,  and  laughing  at  my  simplicity 
all  the  time,  you  stole  my  father  from  me.  And  it  was  not  love 
for  him  that  carried  you  away — you  dare  not  tell  me  to  my 
face  that  it  was.  It  was  love  of  fine  furniture,  and  fine  clothes, 
of  that  silk  dress,  and  those  rings,  of  all  that  a  true  woman 
should  scorn.  Keep  them,  enjoy  them,  and  much  good  may 
they  do  you  !  "  said  Sybil,  her  eyes  flashing.  "  You  sold  your- 
self for  them — with  that  I  do  not  meddle,  it  rests  between  your 
God  and  you,  but  you  sold  my  friendship  toor  and  this  I  will 
tell  you,  there  is  nothing — nothing  this  wide  earth  holds — will 
ever  purchase  it  back  again.  If  you  had  thrown  it  into  the  sea, 
it  would  not  be  more  lost  to  you  than  it  is." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  rose. 

"  Mr.  Dermot  has  been  speaking  to  you,"  she  said,  glancing 
at  the  violets  on  the  table.  "  What  has  he  been  saying  ?  I  will 
know  it — I  have  a  right  to  know  it ! " 

"  Have  you  ? "  replied  Sybil.  "  What  right,  I  wonder  ? 
There  was  a  time  indeed,  when  I  wras  so  foolish  as  to  lay  bare 
every  thought  and  feeling  of  my  heart  to  you — but  surely  that 
time  is  over." 

"  I  tell  you  he  has  been  speaking  to  you,"  angrily  said  Mrs. 
Kennedy;  "  and  if  you  will  not  tell  me,  he  shall." 

"He  is  in  the  counting-house,"  coolly  replied  Sybil.  "I 
see  the  light  burning  there,  so  if  you  wish  to  question  him  you 


can." 


Mrs.  Kennedy  went  to  the  door.  When  her  hand  was  on 
the  lock,  she  turned  round  and  looked  at  Sybil.  There  was 
pride,  and  humility,  and  old  affection  in  the  look. 

"  There  was  a  time,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  shook  slightly 
as  she  spoke,  "  there  was  a  time,  Sybil,  when  you  would  have 
remembered  not  merely  your  imaginary  wrongs,  but  real  and 
true  proofs  of  friendship.  I  watched  by  your  bed  when  you 
were  sick  and  dying  amongst  strangers ;  I  was  true  to  you, 
timer  than  you  think  or  know.  I  could  have  married  Count  de 
llenneville  if  I  chose  !  I  did  not.  Why  do  you  forget  these 
things  ? " 

I  do  not  forget  them,"  replied   Sybil ;   "  but  you  have 


a. 


sybil's  second  love.  311 

ruined  them  all — you  have  sown  doubt,  and  doubt  you  must 
reap.  I  may  wrong  you,  but  I  do  believe  that  if  you  were  kind 
and  true,  it  was  because  it  cost  you  nothing  to  be  so.  I  cannot 
help  seeing  that  when  I  stood  in  your  way  you  walked  over  me 
recklessly." 

With  a  smile  of  scorn  Mrs.  Kennedy  replied  : 

"  That  is  a  very  convenient  way  of  explaining,  and  getting 
rid  of  kindness  and  affection." 

"  I  know  a  way  more  convenient  still,"  said  Sybil,  with  a 
steady  look  ;  "  it  is  to  take  advantage  of  both  to  crush  and  ruin 
the  giver.  I  defy  you  to  say  that  I  ever  wronged  you.  I  defy 
you  to  say  it  in  the  past,  and  I  defy  you  to  say  it  in  the  future. 
I  know  what  my  lot  in  this  house  will  henceforth  be,  but  I  sub- 
mit to  it  beforehand,  with  an  aching  heart  I  confess  it,  but  with 
pride  enough  to  abstain  from  any  thing  like  retaliation.  From 
such  power  as  I  have  to  offend  or  wound  you  you  are  safe — I 
would  scorn  to  use  it." 

"  You  are  too  good  ! "  ironically  said  Mrs.  Kennedy ;  "  but 
I  suppose  I  must  meet  this  magnanimous  declaration  in  a 
friendly  spirit.  Of  course,  if  your  father  chides  or  censures,  you 
will  kindly  lay  it  to  me." 

"  No,"  frankly  said  Sybil.  "  I  do  not  think  you  wish  it. 
I  even  believe  you  would  like  to  be  kind  to  me.  But  I  tell 
you  again,"  she  added,  her  eyes  flashing  with  generous  indigna- 
tion, "  that  never  will  I  accept  the  kindness  of  the  friend  who 
betrayed  me." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  thought  awhile,  then  said  coldly, 

"  You  are  young  and  inexperienced,  and  therefore  harsh 
and  severe.  Later  you  will  think  differently  of  all  this.  I  shall 
always  be  ready  and  willing  to  renew  our  old  affection ;  but 
you  must  take  the  first  step,  Sybil.  I  have  done  all  that  I 
could  do,  and  far  more  than  your  father  wished  me  to  do." 

Without  waiting  for  any  answer,  without  even  looking  at 
Svbil,  she  left  the  room. 


312  sybil's  second  loye. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

The  counting-house  was  empty  when  Mrs.  Kennedy  entered 
it ;  but  Mr.  Dermot  bad  left  a  light  burning  on  the  table,  and 
she  knew  be  would  return.  She  sat  down  and  waited  his  com- 
ing. She  was  a  brave  woman,  though  not  a  good  one.  She 
would  defy  the  enemies  she  had  raised  against  herself,  and  face 
the  danger  she  had  called  up.  She  had  failed  with  Sybil,  but 
she  was  not  without  hopes  of  success  with  her  former  lover.  So 
she  sat,  waiting  patiently  enough,  thinking,  with  a  wondering 
sort  of  contempt,  of  the  tragic  way  in  which  Sybil  took  all  this, 
and  feeling  just  a  touch  of  regret  that  she  took  it  thus. 

But  Blanche  Cains  was  not  the  woman  to  -linger  over  such 
regret.  She  had  not,  indeed,  anticipated  this;  her  nature  was 
not  one  of  deep  thought  or  much  foresight.  She  liked  to  go 
on,  pushing  others  aside,  trampling  obstacles  under  foot,  but 
she  did  not  care  to  ask  herself,  "  What  will  the  cost  of  victory 
be  ? "  She  was  no  subtle  schemer,  though  she  had  a  power  of 
deceit  without  which  she  could  never  have  prevailed.  She  had 
scarcely  entered  Mr.  Kennedy's  house,  and  appreciated  its  com- 
forts, both  actual  and  contingent,  when  she  had  resolved  to  put 
Mr.  Dermot  aside,  and  marry  the  father  of  her  trusting  friend. 
Mr.  Kennedy  did  not  care  for  her,  and  she  saw  it.  _  What  of 
that?  It  would  only  sweeten  victory  to  subdue  this  careless 
rebel.  So  she  spread  her  net,  and  when  the  bird  was  in  its 
meshes,  she  closed  it,  and  laughed  to  herself  like  a  saucy  child. 
He  was  young  enough,  and  handsome  enough,  too,  for  her  to 
like  him  in  a  certain  way.  Besides,  he  adored  her,  and  would 
be  generous.  Of  Sybil  she  thought  little,  of  Mr.  Dermot  not  at 
all/  She  disliked  him  now,  and  as  her  pleasure  was  her  rule  of 
life,  so  were  her  likings  and  her  dislikings  the  only  code  of  con- 
science Blanche  Cains  acknowledged.  For  her  dear  little  Sybil, 
indeed,  she  felt  some  slight  compunction,  but,  then,  she  was 
half  vexed  with  her  too. 

"  If  she  loved  me  as  much  as  she  says,"  thought  Miss  Cains, 
"she  would  have  thought  of  it.  Of  course  she  knows  her 
father  will  marry  again.  Then  why  not  wish  me  to  be  her  step- 
mother? No,  she  would  like  me  to  be  her  dependant.  She 
would  shower  benefits  on  me,  I  suppose,  and  kiss  and  hug  me 
all  day  long  like  a  lapdog.  But  it  cannot  be.  However,  I  will 
be  very  kind  to  her — dear  little  Sybil !  " 


sybil's  second  love.  313 

To  do  her  justice,  Miss  Cains  had  some  delightful  fancies 
concerning  this  prospective  kindness.  She  would  he  the  me- 
dium of  Mr.  Kennedy's  love  to  his  daughter.  No  girl  in  all 
Saint  Vincent  should  be  attired  so  exquisitely  as  Sybil  Kennedy. 
She  should  have  such  darling  dresses,  and  such  a  sweet  little 
room,  and  when  she  had  a  fancy  she  need  only  come  to  her 
step-mother  and  tell  it  to  her,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  would  coax  or 
worry  it  out  of  her  husband,  for  dear  little  Sybil  must  be  grat- 
ified. 

All  this  had  been  very  pleasant  to  think  of,  and  it  was  as 
provoking  to  find  that  it  would  not  come  to  pass.  Sybil's  per- 
versity was  set  up  as  a  barrier  between  them.  She  had  not 
loved  her  after  all.  It  had  only  been  the  lapdog  affection,  and 
because  Blanche  would  not  be  a  lapdog,  Sybil  hated  her,  and 
looked  at  her  with  cold,  scornful  eves. 

Mrs.  Kennedy's  feelings  were  too  blunt  for  her  anger  against 
Sybil  to  rise  very  high.  But  she  was  displeased,  and  her  dis- 
pleasure was  akin  to  dislike.  She  was  a  sort  of  heathen  in  her 
way.  Not  a  devout  pagan  like  Socrates,  nor  one  that  sub- 
dued his  passions  like  Scipio,  nor  yet  such  a  heathen  as  Lucre- 
tia,  who  could  not  survive  dishonor.  No ;  but  she  belonged  to 
that  countless  multitude  who  have  ever  been,  and  will  not  cease 
to  be  till  time  is  dead.  She  was  one  of  those  who  make  gods, 
small  or  mighty,  of  their  passions,  according  to  the  strength  and 
measure  of  their  nature.  For  whom  the  tables  of  the  law  were 
never  written.  For  whom  Christ  died  in  vain.  Customs,  cir- 
cumstances, hedge  in  the  majority  of  these  from  great  crimes 
-or  weighty  sins ;  many  behave  pretty  much  like  Christians,  and 
call  themselves  such.  But  watch  them  closely ;  see  how  their 
eager,  sensuous  natures  grasp  at  every  pleasure,  every  joy,  and 
forego  no  temptation.  The  smallest  sacrifice  of  self  is  intolera- 
ble. The  greatest  is  never  thought  of.  They  cannot  do  it,  and 
they  neither  admire  nor  love  the  foolish  ascetic  who  conquers 
the  flesh,  and  lays  his  quivering  heart  bare  beneath  God's  hand. 
Why  punish  one's  self  so?  Was  not  life  given  for  enjoyment  ? — 
are  not  these  self-inflicted  pangs  the  diseased  workings  of  poor, 
sad  fanatics  ?  To  this  creed  Mrs.  Kennedy  had  ever  practically 
belonged.  There  had  ever  been  something  in  Sybil's  passion- 
ate, aspiring  nature  that  jarred  upon  her.  What  was  that  silly 
girl  ever  longing  for?  AVhy  did  she  ever  go  beyond  the  present 
in  some-  wild  dream  or  other  ?  Why  did  she  rave  about  books, 
or  people,  or  things  ?  It  was  irritating  at  times,  and  ever  in- 
14 


311:  sybil's  second  loye. 

comprehensible,  and  at  other  times  it  was  hateful.  For  to  this 
day  the  heathen  hates  the  Christian,  who,  alas  !  often  hates  him. 
The  Avar  of  creeds  is  ever  going  on — a  fierce  war  often — and  al- 
ways a  war  of  mutual  derision  and  scorn. 

Spite  this  difference  in  their  two  natures,  Miss  Cains  had 
taken  a  liking  to  Sybil.  She  had  indulged  and  petted  the  young 
girl  at  school.  She  had  even  watched  by  her  sick-bed,  and 
braved  contagion  to  do  so.  But  then  she  did  not  fear  this  par- 
ticular disease ;  indeed,  a  certain  bravery  was  one  of  her  re- 
deeming traits,  and  she  had  found  pleasure  in  Sybil's  vivacious 
adoration.  The  latter  years  of  Blanche  Cains  had  been  bitter. 
They  had  overflowed  with  humiliations,  and  slights,  and  scorns, 
which  she  hated.  Against  all  these  Sybil's  worship  had  avenged 
her.  It  was  soothing  to  wounded  vanity  and  smarting  pride  to 
be  the  idol  of  this  fervent  school-girl.  It  was  pleasant,  too,  and 
Miss  Cains  foresaw  that  it  could  lead  to  much  that  would  be 
pleasanter  still.  A  friendship  based  on  such  grounds  was  not 
very  likely  to  prove  self-denying,  and  as  she  thought  over  all 
this,  Mrs.  Kennedy  again  thought  what  a  silly  girl  Sybil  must 
have  been,  and  was  still. 

The  sound  of  a  step  roused  her  from  her  meditation.  The 
door  opened,  she  turned  round,  and  they  were  face  to  face. 
They  exchanged  one  cold,  wary  look,  and  did  not  speak.  At 
length  Mr.  Dermot  very  coldly  asked  to  know  Mrs.  Kennedy's 
pleasure. 

"  I  think,  sir,  you  may  guess  it,"  was  the  lady's  composed 
reply.  "  You  have  been  already  sowing  discord  between  my 
husband's  daughter  and  me,  doing  what  you  can  to  embitter  my 
stay  in  this  house.  I  come  to  know  your  pleasure — am  I  to 
leave  it,  or  will  you  ? — one  house  cannot  hold  us." 

"  In  that  case,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mrs.  Kennedy,  that  you 
must  go.     I  have  no  intention  of  leaving  this  house." 

She  stared  at  him,  more  annoyed  than  angry. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  explain  yourself,"  she  said,  after  a  while, 
"  there  need  be  no  riddles  between  us." 

"  And  why  should  I  explain  ?  You  have  only  to  question 
your  husband,  and  you  will  surely  know." 

"  Mr.  Dermot,  I  expected  the  conduct  of  a  gentleman,  but  I 
find  I  was  mistaken." 

She  rose,  and  looked  grandly  scornful. 

But  Mr.  Dermot  smiled  a  cold,  unmoved  smile.  He  could 
be  stung,  but  not  by  her. 


Sybil's  second  love.  315 

"  Of  your  own  accord  you  released  me,"  sbe  pursue'd,  "  and 
because  I  took  tlie  liberty  you  gave  me,  you  cboose  to  insult  me." 

"My  dear  madam,"  kindly  said  Mr.  Dermot,  "  take  this  friend- 
ly advise,  offer  no  excuse  where  tbere  is  no  accusation.  You  were 
free  to  bestow  your  baud  on  Mr.  Kennedy,  and  you  could  not 
bestow  it  on  a  worthier  man.  You  bave  made  a  good  match, 
too,  and  pray,  who  blames  you  for  doing  so  ?  " 

Blanche  looked  at  him  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  You  want  me  to  fear  you,"  she  said,  "  but  nothing  shall 
make  me  do  that — nothing,  do  you  bear  ?  I  defy  you,  Mr. 
Dermot,  I  defy  you  !  " 

Mr.  Dermot  took  out  bis  pocket-book,  opened  it,  and  pro- 
duced a  letter.  On  seeing  it,  she  turned  ashy  pale.  At  a 
glance  she  knew  the  writing,  it  was  hers — a  proof  she  could 
not  deny  was  in  his  bands.  No  doubt  be  would  take  it  to  her 
husband,  and  she  must  confess  her  mean  deceit.  She  wondered 
if  she  could  snatch  and  tear  it  from  his  hand — but  no,  the  at- 
tempt was  useless,  and  might  be  dangerous.  So  she  stood  si- 
lent, looking  at  him  with  moody  eyes. 

"  Inadvertently,"  said  Mr.  Dermot,  laying  grave  emphasis 
on  the  word,  "  this  letter  remained  in  my  hands.  I  was  hesita- 
ting whether  to  destroy  it,  or  return  it  to  you,  but  by  coming 
here  to-night  you  have  removed  all  doubt." 

He  placed  it  on  the  table  before  her.  She  took  it  up  with- 
out eagerness,  and  held  it  loosely.  Why  did  he  care  so  little 
about  injuring  her  when  he  had  her  so  completely  in  bis  power  ? 
It  could  not  be  the  old  love.  Yet  there  was  no  harm  in  trying, 
so  she  said  softly : 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Dermot." 

He  looked  at  her — and  no  woman  could  mistake  that  look. 
Nothing — no,  not  an  atom  of  the  old  love  was  there.  Unless 
in  so  far  as  it  might  have  been  useful  to  her,  Mrs.  Kennedy  had 
no  wish  for  that  same  old  love — yet  that  look  stung  her.  She 
thrust  the  letter  into  the  flame  of  the  candle,  then  threw  it 
contemptuously  or  the  hearth,  and  let  it  burn  there.  And  still 
she  was  not  satisfied. 

"Mr. Dermot,"  sbe  said,  "you  know  very  well  that  I  can 
ask  my  husband  for  no  explanation.  I  come  to  you,  and  you 
are  bound  to  answer  me.  Why  and  bow  do  vou  remain  in  this 
house  ? " 

"Mrs.  Kennedy,  you  must  question  your  husband  or  re- 
main in  ignorance.     Why  should  ho  not  tell  you? — and  why 


316  Sybil's  secoxd  love. 

should  I  ?  There  is  no  past  between  us — we  are  strangers 
— and  we  met  to-day  for  the  first  time.  Destroy  that  un- 
derstanding, and  you  place  yourself  in  a  position  of  doubt 
and  difficulty.  Keep  it,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  you  have 
only  to  be  happy  according  to  the  way  you  have  chosen." 

"  Mr.  Dermot,"  said  Blanche,  "you  are  a  false,  bad  man, 
and  I  hate  you !  But  I  have  no  need  to  question  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy— you  have  already  told  me  enough.  You  are  his  part- 
ner, or  something  of  the  kind.  Be  it  so.  I  shall  not  crave 
your  mercy,  and  what  is  more,  I  shall  scorn  to  be  revenged. 
You  have  deceived  me  all  along,  but  know  that,  though  Mr. 
Kennedy  may  be  the  older  and  the  poorer  man,  I  prefer  him 
still  a  thousand  times  to  you." 

She  walked  out  of  the  counting-house  without  giving  him 
another  look.  As  she  spoke,  so  she  felt  in  that  bitter  hour. 
She  had  been  deceived,  nay,  she  had  been  cheated,  and  she  saw 
it.  But  her  hatred  of  the  deceiver  was  greater  than  her  resent- 
ment of  the  cheat. 

Mr.  Dermot  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  inform  her  that 
he  was  richer  than  she  thought,  and  he  had  given  her  no  clue 
to  Mr.  Kennedy's  circumstances.  He  had  let  her  be  caught 
in  this  net  of  her  own  spreading,  and  now  he  laughed  at  her ! 
Let  him.  He  should  not  triumph  in  her  regret,  nor  behold 
her  mortification.  She  would  love  Mr.  Kennedy  to  his  face,  and 
that  should  be  her  revenge. 

In  this  fond  mood  Mrs.  Kennedy  entered  her  room,  where 
her  husband  was  rather  anxiously  waiting.  He  thought  her 
with  Sybil  all  the  time,  and  the  interview  seemed  a  long  one. 
Had  Pussy  been  coaxed  back  to  duty  by  the  charmer  ?  He 
gave  her  an  uneasy  look  as  she  came  in.  Mrs.  Kennedy  smiled 
brightly,  and  went  up  to  him  with  a  pretty,  playful,  deprecat- 
ing air. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  said,  "  not  yet.  You  sec  she  feels  sore,  but 
she  will  come  round.  Indeed,  if  there  had  not  been  mischief- 
making,  I  do  believe  she  would  have  come  round.  So  in  my 
headlong  way  I  have  been  to  Mr.  Dermot  in  the  counting-house, 
and  scolded  him  roundly.  He,  poor  man,  declares  he  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  but  seems  rather  affronted  with  me.  Have  I  done 
very  wrong?  Now  don't  look  so  cross,-dear,  but  do  tell  me  how 
I  am  to  behave  to  that  Mr.  Dermot?  Is  he  a  clerk  ?  Has  he  a 
share  in  the  business  ?  What  is  he  here  ?  Why  did  he  not  go 
to  Canada  ?  " 


sybil's  second  love.  317 

Mr.  Kennedy  was  not  a  communicative  man,  but  she  spoke 
in  a  coaxing,  careless  tone.  She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
in  a  fond  way,  that  stirred  every  fibre  in  bis  heart,  and  mas- 
tered him.  He  felt  her  breath  on  his  cheek,  and  her  white  band 
softly  playing  with  his  hair,  and  be  yielded  to  this  beloved  Delilah. 

"  My*  love,"  he  replied,  "  it  is  a  business  secret,  and  you 
must  not  mention  it  even  to  Derrnot.  But  the  fact  is,  I  have 
given  up  this  French  business  to  him,  and  kept  the  foreign  con- 
nection for  myself." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  opened  her  blue  eyes  in  childish  wonder. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  said,  "  is  this  house  his  ?  " 

"  It  will  be,  my  love.     The  house  goes  with  the  mill." 

A  cold  shudder  passed  through  Mrs.  Kennedy's  heart.  She 
was  a  matter-of-fact  woman,  and  tangible  possessions  were  all  in 
all  to  her.  "What  was  Mr.  Kennedy's  foreign  connection  ?  It 
might  mean  nothing.  The  house,  the  mill,  the  French  busi- 
ness were  substantial  goods,  and  these  were  to  belong  to  her  dis- 
carded lover.  She  looked  at  the  cupids  on  the  blue  hangings 
on  the  walls,  at  the  costly  furniture,  and  the  velvet  carpets,  and 
they  bored  her  dreadfully.  She  gazed  moodily  at  the  man,  on 
whose  shoulder  her  head  now  rested,  and  she  saw  him  with 
changed  eyes.  How  old  he  looked — quite  old  ;  and  there  were 
gray  hairs  in  his  beard,  too,  and  she  was  married  to  him,  and 
perhaps  he  would  be  a  beggar  to-morrow. 

"  You  look  tired,  love/'  said  Mr.  Kennedy. 

Blanche  roused  herself  with  a  little  start. 

"  No,  she  was  not  tired,  but  she  was  thinking.  "Would  they 
all  stay  in  this  house,  suppose  Mr.  Dermot  got  married  ? " 

"  And  suppose  he  marries  Sybil,"  playfully  said  Mr.  Kenne- 
dy, kissing  her  hand. 

It  bad  been  the  boast  of  this  woman  that  she  was  not  en- 
vious. That  boast  perished  as  her  husband  spoke.  Suppose  he 
marries  Sybil !  She  would  have  grudged  her  former  friend  no 
other  husband,  but  this  one  she  did  grudge  her  in  her  heart. 
What!  had  she  schemed,  and  plotted,  and  betrayed;  had  she 
sold  herself  to  an  old  man  that  these  two  might  scorn  her  with 
their  love  and  their  money  ?  The  thought  was  hateful,  so  she 
smiled  and  said : 

"He  will  not  do  for  Sybil." 

"Why  so?" 

"  You  will  not  tell  Sybil  I  told  you  ?  " 

"No— what  is  it?" 


318  sybil's  second  love. 

"Well,  then — yon  will  not  tell  Mr.  Dermot  either?" 

«  No." 

"  On  your  word  ? " 

"  On  my  word — what  is  it  ? " 

"  Well,  then,  he  proposed  to  Sybil,  and  she  would  not  have 
him — Sybil  herself  told  me  so." 

Mr.  Kennedy  bit  bis  lip,  and  looked  deeply  vexed. 

"  He  proposed  to  Sybil  ? " 

"  I  believe  I  am  not  using  the  right  words — he  gave  Sybil 
to  understand  that  he  was  fond  of  her,  and  Sybil^  as  plainly 
gave  him  to  understand  that  she  was  not  fond  of  him.  I  can- 
not say  what  actual  words  passed — but  it  was  so." 

Mr.  Kennedy  still  looked  vexed — more  than  vexed;  he 
took  a  turn  round  the  room,  then  came  back  to  his  wife. 

"  Sybil  must  have  him,"  he  said  doggedly.   , 

"  She  shall  never  have  him,"  thought  Mrs.  Kennedy,  setting 
her  teeth.  But  with  that  thought  there  passed  another  that 
chilled  her  very  marrow.  Was  Mr.  Kennedy  an  all  but  ruined 
man,  and  was  this  match  the  only  pledge  left  of  his  safety  ? " 

"  But,  my  love,"  she  said,  "  is  this  house  really  to  be  Mr. 
Dermot's — I  mean  is  it  a  settled  thing  that  he  must  have  it  ?— 
suppose  you  and  he  disagreed  ?  " 

"  We  shall  not  disagree." 

"  Well,  but  suppose  you  did  ? "  she  persisted. 

"  If  we  disagree  before  a  year  is  out,  I  resume  all  my  old 
rights,  for  our  agreement  is  not  to  be  carried  out  before  then." 
'  "  Mrs.  Kennedy  breathed  a  relieved  sigh.  A  year  indeed  ! 
A  month  would  do  her  purpose.  So  she  resumed  her  pretty 
coaxing  ways,  and  wrung  from  Mr.  Kennedy  a  promise  that  he 
would  not  utter  a  word  of  reproach  to  Sybil. 

"  Mind,  not  one  word,"  she  added. 

Mr.  Kennedy  kissed  her  fondly,  and  thought  what  an  angel 
he  had  wedded  ;  but  for  all  that  he  did  not  tell  her  that  Saint 
Vincent,  and  the  mill,  and  the  French  business  were  already 
sold  to  Mr.  Dermot,  and  that  it  was  out  of  the  purchase-money 
the  handsome  room  in  which  they  now  stood  had  been 
furnished,  lie  did  not  tell  her  that  Saint  Vincent  had  never 
really  been  his,  but  one  of  those  doubtful  possessions  which 
men  of  his  speculative  turn  indulge  in.  Bie  did  not  tell  her 
that  he  had  lost  thousands  since  she  had  first  come  to  the 
abbey,  that  his  daughter's  fortune  was  gone,  and  that  for  the 
third  time  in  his  life  the  future  was  a  blank  before  him. 


sybil's  second  love.  319 


CHAPTER    XLII. 


Mr.  Kennedy  was  faithful  to  his  promise  of  not  scolding 
Sybil.  But  if  he  did  not  reprove  in  words,  he  had  estranged 
looks  and  cold  language  at  his  command,  and  he  used  both  un- 
sparingly the  whole  of  the  next  day.  His  daughter's  pale  face 
and  sad  eyes  did  not  make  him  relent,  though  they  moved  Mrs. 
Mush  to  pity,  and  stirred  the  very  depths  of  Mr.  Dermot's 
heart.  When,  on  entering  the  drawing-room  in  the  evening, 
he  saw  Sybil  sitting  apart,  silent  and  neglected,  he  went  at  once 
and  drew  a  chair  near  hers.  He  caught  Mrs.  Keunedy's  scorn- 
ful smile,  and  he  saw  Mr.  Kennedy's  half-displeased  look,  and 
he  read,  too,  an  uneasy  meaning  on  Mrs.  Mush's  face,  which 
meant,  "  This  will  lead  to  no  good ;  "  but  Mr.  Dermot  was  a 
wilful  man,  and  not  even  Sybil's  languid  and  monosyllabic  re- 
plies could  deter  him  from  his  purpose.  Moreover,  he  knew 
how  to  compel  her  attention. 

"I  have  brought  you  a  new  book,"  he  said,  taking  a  volume 
out  of  his  pocket  and  putting  it  on  the  table  before  her.  "  I 
think  you  will  like  it." 

Sybil's  face  brightened,  and  she  gave  him  a  grateful  look ; 
but  suddenly  her  eyes  grew  dim  and  her  hand  shook  as  it 
opened  the  volume.  It  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Dermot,  but  it 
was  only  kindness,  and  with,  her  father  it  had  once  been  love. 
But  though  Mr.  Dermot  saw  and  understood  all  this,  he  would 
not  be  disheartened  in  his  well-meant  effort.  Moreover,  he 
liked  to  guard  and  avenge  this  poor  little  outcast,  who  had 
done  nothing  to  deserve  her  fate,  and  who,  if  her  father  had 
been  just,  and  her  friend  true,  need  never  have  worn  that  deso- 
late, heart-broken  mien.  He  knew  that  it  would  please  neither 
Mr.  Kennedy  nor  his  wife  that  he  should  thus  devote  himself  to 
Sybil,  and  protest  against  their  unkindness,  but  little  indeed  did 
he  care  for  their  displeasure. 

The  color  returned  to  Sybil's  pale  cheeks,  and  the  old  gaj  - 
ety  to  her  voice,  and  every  manly  and  generous  instinct  within 
him  rejoiced  to  think  that  this  was  his  doing. 

"Ah!  how  good  you  are,"  Sybil  could  not  help  saving,  in 
a  voice  too  low  for  the  rest  to  hear,  "  how  very  good  you  are  to 


me!" 


"I  wish  I  could  be  ton  times  hinder,  my  good  little  girl," 
he  said,  casting  a  look  of  mingled  indignation  and  scorn  at  Mr. 


320  sybil's  second  loye. 

Kennedy  and  his  wife.  He  felt  no  jealousy,  no  personal  re« 
sentraent,  but  it  was  incredible  to  him  that  Mr.  Kennedy  could 
prefer  to  a  daughter  like  Sybil  a  wife  like  Blanche  Cains. 
All  affection  partakes  of  love's  blinduess,  and  imagination  is  a 
great  deceiver.  Mr.  Dermot  had  long  clothed  Miss  Cains  with 
all  the  virtues  which  can  adorn  woman,  and  which  a  generous 
heart  can  conceive.  But  no  sooner  did  he  see  his  fair  mistress 
daily,  than  his  illusion  melted  away.  She  had  helped  him  in  a 
sort  of  way — she  did  not  care  to  deceive  or  keep  him.  It 
suited  her  that  he  should  open  his  eyes,  and  cease  to  love. 
Jilting  him  was  inconvenient,  and  she  preferred  that  he  should 
jilt  her.  The  glamour  faded  from  before  his  eyes  almost  abruptly. 
The  enchantress  chose  to  dissolve  her  own  spell,  and  he  knew 
not  the  magic  art  that  could  restore  it.  Indeed,  loathing  and 
scorn  marked  his  wakening.  "When  he  saw  how  he  had  been 
loved,  he  set  her  free,  and  restored  every  proof  of  their  engage- 
ment- 
Miss  Cains  played  her  cards  so  well  that  she  carried  on  a 
comfortable  courtship  with  the  new  lover,  and  a  dire  though 
silent  quarrel  with  the  old  one,  unsuspected  by  either.  And 
now  that  he  saw  what  her  object  had  been,  Mr.  Dermot  de- 
spised her,  and,  forgetting  his  own  blindness,  wondered  at  his 
friend's. 

"It  is  amazing,  Sybil,"  he  said,  looking  back  to  her;  "but 
Time  will  avenge  you." 

"  I  want  no  vengeance,  Mr.  Dermot." 

"  But  you  suffer,  Sybil." 

"  I  cannot  help  that.  The  whole  day  I  have  heard  about 
that  ball  of  hers.  I  think,  moreover,  she  has  already  expressed 
twenty  extravagant  wishes,  which  it  will  take  much  money  to 
gratify,  and  which  are  all  to  be  fulfilled.  Her  whims  are  laws 
now — and  my  father  does  not  even  look  at  me,  Mr.  Dermot." 

"  I  wish  looking  at  you  would  do  any  good,"  said  Mr.  Der- 
mot rather  warmly,  "for  I  like  it,  Sybil.  You  have  a  face 
which  makes  the  task  a  pleasure.  I  don't  mean  that  you  are 
so  amazingly  pretty,"  he  added,  smiling ;  "  but  faces  are  like 
books,  pleasing  or  painful,  and  I  like  the  story  which  yours  tells 
me,  Sybil." 

"  Sybil's  fingers  shook  a  little  as  she  went  on  with  her 
crochet.  This  kindness  of  Mr.  Dcrmot's,  which  was  so  unlike 
love,  was  both  her  torment  and  her  happiness.     He  went  on : 

"  I  said  that  Time  would  avenge  you — why  will  you  not  let 


sybil's  second  love.  321 

me  forestall  or  abet  Time,  Sybil  ?  I  would  gratify  your  wishes 
if  you  would  but  express  them,  aud  no  one  would  or  need  be 
the  wiser  for  it,     Aud  I  should  like  it,  Sybil." 

"  Xo — no — I  must  not — I  dare  not,"  stammered  Sybil. 
"I  have  no  wishes — I  want  nothing." 

"  From  me,"  he  suggested,  looking  scarcely  pleased. 

uAh!  that  is  not  it,  indeed,  no;  but  she  is  my  father's 
wife,  and  she  has  a  right,  I  suppose,  to  be  extravagant.  And 
what  right  have  I  to  tax  you  so  ? " 

"The  right  I  give  you — Sybil,  the  best  of  all  rights,  it 
seems  to  me.  Moreover,  you  have  never  been  extravagant  in 
your  desires.  It  does  not  take  much  to  please  you,  or  to  make 
you  happy,  Sybil.  A  few  flowers,  a  book  will  do  it.  Only 
you  will  not  let  me." 

Sybil  did  not  know  how  to  resist  him.  She  felt  troubled, 
happy,  and  withal  wretched.  Why  was  her  heart  so  exacting 
that  it  required  either  more  or  less  kindness  ?  She  would  have 
asked  no  better  than  to  let  Mr.  Dermot  be  kind  to  her,  but 
prudence  and  pride  forbade  it.  That  kindness  must  cease,  alas ! 
it  must  even  be  given  to  another,  and  she  might  have  to  see  it. 
Should  she  not,  then,  relinquish  it  betimes,  and  deny  herself  to- 
dav,  in  order  not  to  be  faint  and  languid  to-morrow  ? 

"Well,  Sybil?  "he  said. 

And  Sybil's  reply  was  the  very  reverse  of  that  which  she 
intended, 

"  Yes,  as  you  please,"  she  said. 

"  What  would  you  like  ?  "  Mr.  Dermot  asked  quickly. 

Sybil  stammered,  half  frightened,  "  Nothing." 

"  Any  thing,"  he  wanted  to  insist. 

But  in  the  mean  while  Mr.  Kennedy  was  beginning  to  look 
displeased,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  grandly  disdainful,  at  this  long 
conference.  So  good-natured  Mrs.  Mush  thought  she  might  as 
well  interfere.  She  rose,  left  her  seat,  and  weut  up  to  Mr.  Der- 
mot and  Sybil. 

"  You  pair  of  plotters,"  she  said, ."  what  comedy  or  what 
drama  is  it  that  you  are  concocting  ? " 

"  Do  you  wish  to  help  us,  Mrs.  Mush?  "  asked  Mr.  Dermot. 

"  I  do  not  object,  provided  you  undertake  the  last  act.  It 
must  be  very  pleasant  to  set  things  going,  but  oh  !  the  winding 
up!" 

"Oh!  ours  shall  be  an  historical  drama,  and  you  know  that 
in  this  the  winding  op  is  already  done." 
14* 


322  stbil's  second  love. 

"  Yes,  and  very  grandly,  too,  sometimes.  Take  the  story 
of  Elizabeth  and  Mary,  for  instance." 

"  I  hate  Elizabeth,"  vehemently  said  Sybil. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  to  abuse  Elizabeth,"  coolly  replied  Mrs. 
Mush,  "  but  what  would  Mary  have  done  without  her  1 " 

"  She  would  have  kept  her  head,  Mrs.  Mush." 

"  My  dear,  I  am  looking  at  these  two  ladies  dramatically, 
and  you  must  confess  that  tragic  end  it  is  which  has  made  Mary 
famous  forever.  And,  then,  there  is  something  terrible  in 
the  aversion  of  these  two  women.  They  never  met — it  owes 
nothing  to  personal  contact — no,  it  is  a  grand  hatred,  crossing 
both  space  and  time." 

Mr.  Dermot  laughed,  and  confessed  it  was  very  fine,  and  as 
he  saw  that  Mrs.  Mush  was  resolved  to  break  his"  tete-a-tete  with 
Sybil,  he  moved  away  of  his  own  accord.  Mrs.  Mush  remained 
near  her  young  cousin. 

"Little  girl,"  she  half  whispered,  "you  must  not  struggle 
against  fate.     It  only  makes  matters  worse." 

Sybil  looked  moody,  and  did  not  reply. 

"  And  you  must  not  let  yourself  be  comforted  so  easily," 
continued  Mrs.  Mush.  "  Man  is  vain,  my  dear,  and  too  easily 
elated." 

This  speech  coincided  too  much  with  Sybil's  secret  fears 
not  to  move  her. 

"Oh!  I  know,"  she  said  a  little  bitterly.  "I  rely  upon 
nothing  and  no  one,  Mrs.  Mush." 

Mr.  Dermot,  who  was  watching  them  a  little  uneasy,  now 
came  back. 

"Mrs.  Mush,  what  are  you  and  Miss  Kennedy  plotting 
now  ?"  he  asked. 

"Tieason,  to  be  sure,"  very  calmly  replied  Mrs.  Mush. 

But  Sybil,  who  felt  restless  under  Mr.  Dermot's  look,  rose 
and  left  the  room.  He  followed  her  out  with  her  book,  which 
she  had  left  on  the  table. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said  reproachfully,  "  I  did  not  overhear  Mrs. 
Mush,  but  I  overheard  you.  And  you  said  that  you  relied 
upon  nothing  and  no  one,  Sybil." 

"  Sybil's  whole  heart  went  back  to  him.  To  hear  was  to 
believe  when  he  spoke. 

"Oh!  I  rely  upon  you,"  she  said  in  a  broken  voice,  "I 
rely  upon  you ;  and  even  if  you,  weary  of  kindness,  I  shall  never 
murmur — I  shall  never  reproach.  Good-night — say  nothing 
more — good- nig!  it." 


sybil's  second  love.  323 

She  left  him  a  little  abruptly,  for  she  felt  her  cheek  flushing, 
and  her  eyes  filling  Avith  tears,  and  she  was  both  ashamed  and 
afraid.  To  say  the  truth,  Mr.  Dermot  was  a  little  startled.  He 
reentered  the  drawing-room,  resolved  to  question  Mrs.  Mush  as 
he  had  questioned  Sybil;  but  she  gave  him  no  opportunity  to 
do  so.  She  sat  near  Mrs.  Kennedy,  and  the  two  ladies  and 
Mr.  Kennedy  himself  were  deep  in  a  most  important  conversa- 
tion— the  ball  which  was  to  grace  Mrs.  Kennedy's  appearance 
in  Saint  Vincent.  Mrs.  Kennedy  wanted  to  triumph  over  her 
old  foes  by  asking  them  to  her  house,  and  her  husband  was 
both  too  fond  and  too  proud  of  her  to  oppose  the  wish.  He 
too  wanted  to  show  the  world  the  prize  he  had  got.  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy was  not  more  anxious  to  display  her  luxurious  furniture 
and  her  diamonds — they  had  belonged  to  Sybil's  mother — than 
Mr.  Kennedy  to  exhibit  her  blue  eyes,  blooming  cheeks,  and 
white  shoulders  to  the  circle  of  his  friends.  Mr.  Dermot  soon 
wearied  of  this  topic  of  conversation,  and  perceiving  he  could 
not  speak  to  Mrs.  Mush  alone,  he  left  the  drawing-room.  The 
night  was  mild,  and  he  crossed  the  silent  cloister,  and  went  out 
into  the  garden.  He  looked  up  at  Sybil's  window.  It  was 
dark.  She  was  fast  asleep  by  this,  and,  childlike,  had  laid  by 
all  her  cares  on  her  pillow.  Why  should  he  question  Mrs. 
Mush  ?  He  knew  Sybil,  he  knew  himself,  and  he  wonld  not 
change  one  tittle  in  his  behavior.  He  would  be  her  friend,  her 
kind  and  true  friend,  and  if  there  was  sweetness  or  pleasure  in 
that  friendship,  why  should  he  not  take  it  ?    ■ 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

All  happiness  has  to  be  bought,  and  a  heavy  price  did 
Sybil  now  pay  for  her  gay  and  careless  youth.  Her  other 
troubles  had  been  unlike  this :  their  bitterness  was  great,  but  it 
was  not  incessant.  It  was  hard  to  be  betrayed  by  her  betrothed. 
It  was  harder  still  to  love  a  man  whose  careless  liking  seemed 
to  forbid  hope  forever.  But  pride  cured  one  grief;  and  there 
is  a  secret  balm  in  the  wounds  which  love  inflicts,  which  will 
not  let  them  become  mortal.  Men  and  women  never  have  died 
of  love,  whatever  poets  may  say.  Love  is  life,  and  would  raise 
and  quicken  the  dead  rather  than  destroy  the  living. 


324;  SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOVE. 

But  there  is  no  soothing  power  in  a  betrayed  friendship. 
There  is  nothing  to  allay  the  bitterness  of  such  daily  stings  as 
grief,  jealousy,  and  wronged  affection  now  inflicted  upon  Sybil. 
Her  father's  passion,  and  the  power  of  Blanche  Cains,  both 
seemed  to  know  no  bounds,  and  Sybil  had  to  look  on  and  see 
it.  Ralph,  her  step-mother's  maid,  was  more  powerful  in  the 
house  than  she  was  now.  Her  tastes;  her  likings,  were  consulted 
in  nothing,  aud  she  was  nothing  and  no  one.  The  visitors  who 
came  to  Saint  Vincent — and  there  was  a  tribe  of  them — asked 
for  Mrs.  Kennedy,  and  Miss  Kennedy  might  appear  or  not  at 
her  pleasure.  She  was  not  missed,  and  certainly  not  wanted. 
Mrs.  Mush  was  very  good-natured  ;  and  Mr.  Dermot  was  more 
than  good-natured.  His  watchful  kindness  was  a  constant  pro- 
test against  the  cruel  change ;  but  he  could  not  alter  matters, 
after  all.  Moreover,  he  lived  much  apart,  and  was  deep  in  busi- 
ness, whilst  Mr.  Kennedy  was  lengthening  his  honeymoon  be- 
yond the  usual  period.  There  were  days  when  Sybil  scarcely 
saw  him,  and  either  lived  alone  or  sat  silent  and  moody  with  her 
step-mother.  This  happened  but  seldom.  Mrs.  Kennedy  had 
at  once  established  her  footing  in  the  little  town  of  Saint  Vin- 
cent.  She  drove  out  daily,  generally  with  her  husband,  and 
lived  in  a  round  of  visits  and  gayeties,  from  which  Sybil  was 
wilfully  excluded.  Now  and  then  some  unexpected  and  wel- 
come act  of  kindness  from  Mr.  Dermot  broke  like  a  ray  of  sun- 
shine on  the  gloom  of  her  life  ;  but  it  was  only  now  and  then, 
for,  as  we  said,  Mr.  Dermot  was  very  busy,  "  and  he  does  not 
care  about  me  after  all,"  thought  Sybil. 

And  thus  time  passed  till  the  day  of  the  party  came  round. 

A  keen  and  bitter  north  wind  blew  from  the  sea,  and  swept 
over  the  whole  coast.  On  such  a  day  the  shelter  of  the  house 
is  pleasant,  and  it  is  a  hardship  to  go  forth.  Yet  scarcely  was 
breakfast  over  when  Sybil  ran  up  to  her  room,  put  on  some 
warm  clothing,  then  went  down  to  the  garden,  thence  proceeded 
to  the  grounds,  walked  there,  striving  against  the  blast,  until, 
wearied  and  exhausted,  she  sat  down  on  the  grassy  bank  where 
she  had  learned  for  the  first  time  that  Mr.  Dermot  was  not  her 
uncle. 

She  remembered  that  evening  and  its  splendor — her  pas- 
sion of  grief  and  wrath  at  its  revelation — but  she  remembered 
them  as  a  remote  dream.  She  had  lived  a  whole  world  since 
then,  and  her  life  was  as  changed  as  the  aspect  of  nature  itself. 
No  sunset  glory  did  she  gaze   on  now,  but  a  tempestuous  sky, 


sybil's  second  love.  325 

where  clouds  rolled  like  sea-tossed  ships.  No  azure  ocean  was 
this,  hut  a  hillowy  main,  beating  in  wrath  and  foam  against  the 
cliffs. 

A  quick  step  made  her  look  round.  She  saw  Mr.  Dermot, 
who,  on  perceiving  her,  changed  his  direction,  and  came  to 
where  she  sat. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  chidingly,  "  what  are  you  doing  here  ? 
Why,  child,  you  are  perished,  and  look  like  a  little  ghost." 

"  I  hate  the  house,"  said  Sybil. 

"  And  therefore  come  out  and  make  yourself  numb  in  this 
bitter  wind.  You  might  choose  some  more  genial  spot.  Come 
on  with  me." 

Sybil  yielded  apathetically.  Mr.  Dermot  took  her  arm,  and 
made  her  walk  fast,  till  they  reached  a  sheltered  little  nook.  A 
pale  sun  piercing  the  clouds  shed  its  light  and  warmth  around 
them,  and  a  tinge  of  color  returned  to  Sybil's  cheeks.  He 
asked  her  how  she  liked  this,  and  Sybil,  smiling,  answered  that 
she  liked  it  well. 

Pity  is  said  to  be  akin  to  love,  and  in  the  compassion 
which  now  filled  Mr.  Dermot's  heart  there  was  something  very 
like  love's  tenderness.  He  felt  it,  and  he  knew  it.  Yes,  he 
Avould  like  to  take  and  cherish  this  poor  little  wronged  one,  to 
give  her  Jove  and  caresses,  to  gratify  her  wishes  and  receive 
grateful  looks  and  smiles  in  return.  He  would  like  to  take 
and  place  her  beyond  the  reach  of  unkind  eyes,  and  feel  him- 
self beloved  by  that  true  and  passionate  young  heart.  It  would 
he  something  to  lead  her  back  to  life  and  joy— a  task  that 
would  bring  its  own  reward. 

"And  so  you  will  go  on  fretting,"  he  said,  looking  down  on 
her  (and  half  tempted  to  add,  "  let  me  comfort  you").  "  And  so 
you  will  hate  yourlot,  and  not  submit." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  desperately  said  Sybil ;  "  and  Mr.  Der- 
mot, would  you  believe  it,  that  ball  of  hers  makes  me  mad.  I 
did  not  think  I  was  so  mean ;  but  it  is  so.  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  that  she  will  be  admired  and  flattered  to-night,  and  that  I 
shall  be  put  by  as  a  thing  of  no  worth.  Ah,  I  was  not  always 
so.  There  was  a  time  when  I  loved  her,  and  I  was  proud  of 
her  beauty.;  and  now,  Mr.  Dermot — despise  me  for  saying  so 
— now  I  hate  it." 

"  No,  Sybil,  you  do  not;  but  you  hate  her,  I  fear.  Do  not, 
Sybil,  do  not.  It  was  her  poverty  did  it  all.  Nature  gave  her 
a  glorious  outside  and  some  good  qualities  besides,  but  she  for- 


326  sybil's  second  love. 

got  to  add  a  heart.  Mrs.  Kennedy  is  a  fine  statue  of  flesh  and 
blood  ;  one  cannot  help  seeing  that  she  is  almost  faultlessly 
handsome  in  face  and  person — " 

"  Do  not,"  interrupted  Sybil,  turning  pale  as  death.  "  I 
have  just  told  you  I  cannot  bear  that  she  should  be  admired." 

"  But  I  do  not  admire  her,  Sybil ;  and  I  decidedly  admire 
you,"  he  added,  smiling,  and  raising  her  hands  to  his  lips  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Ah,  now  you  humble  me,"  cried  Sybil,  sorely  distressed, 
"  I  do  not  want  to  be  admired  at  all.  I  never  meant  that.  I 
do  not  feel  vain  now,  Mr.  Dermot,  but  I  feel  wronged  and 
jealous,  and  I  detest  her." 

"  But,  Sybil,  I  cannot  help  admiring  you,"  said  Mr.  Dermot, 
rather  warmly.  "  I  am  not  flattering  you,  on  my  word.  You 
are  too  good  to  flatter." 

There  was  sincerity  in  his  tone,  but  there  was  more  in  his 
looks.  Very  sweet  is  the  admiration  of  those  whom  we  love, 
and  Sybil  felt  as  if  a  divine  balm  had  washed  her  cares  away. 
A  glow  came  over  her  face,  not  that  of  mere  modesty,  still  less 
of  gratified  pride,  but  the  lovely  glow  of  a  happy  heart.  She 
looked  so  handsome  that  Mr.  Dermot  was  dazzled  and  bewitched. 
His  eyes  sparkled,  he  stopped  short,  and  looked  down  at  Sybil, 
his  face  overflowed  with  emotion,  words  trembled  on  his  lips, 
then  suddenly  he  dropped  her  hand,  which  he  had  taken,  and 
walked  a  few  steps  away,  pale  and  troubled.  Mr.  Dermot  had 
thought — 

"I  cannot  marry  her." 

The  will,  not  the  power,  was  wanting — but  the  will  is  every 
thing;  and  Mr.  Dermot,  though  fascinated  for  a  moment,  was 
not  in  love. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  coining  back  to  her,  "  do  not  mind  me — I 
am  not  very  well  this  morning." 

Had  Sybil  guessed  the  truth  ?  Perhaps  she  had,  for  she 
smiled  sadly,  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the  earth,  and  she  turned 
back  to  the  house. 

"  Never  again,  if  I  can  help  it,"  she  thought,  "  shall  I  meet 
Mr.  Dermot  alone.  I  cannot  trust  him.  He  admires  me  just 
enough  to  commit  himself,  and  he  does  not  know  that  I  would 
scorn  to  take  advantage  of  such  admiration.  Of  course  he  is  too 
honorable  to  trifle  with  me ;  but  even  if  he  wished  it,  he  could 
not  do  it — I  should  detect  truth  from  falsehood  now,  or,  rather, 
love  from  mere  liking." 


sybil's  second  love.  327 

"  Sybil,  you  seem  displeased  witb  me,"  said  Mr.  Dermot, 
uneasily. 

"  I  am  displeased  witb  myself,"  replied  Sybil,  very  gravely ; 
"  not  witb  you,  Mr.  Dermot." 

Sbe  walked  away,  evidently  not  wishing  bim  to  follow  ber; 
and  be  respected  tbat  wisb,  and  remained  behind. 

Mr.  Dermot  was  not  accustomed  to  let  bis  feelings  carry  bim 
away,  and  be  wanted  to  tbink  over  and  examine  tbe  sudden 
emotion  wbicb  bad  so  nearly  mastered  him.  He  was  not  in 
love  witb  Sybil,  and  could  not  well  fancy  bimself  so.  He  liked 
this  delightful  little  wild-flower,  but  he  did  not  care  to  gather  it. 
Wearisome  to  him  was  the  mere  thought  of  wedded  life,  and  of 
the  whole  matrimonial  routine,  which,  seen  from  the  shores  of 
celibacy,  is  so  uninviting.  Besides,  why  marry,  when  so  many 
struggles  and  cares  lay  before  bim  ? 

Thus  spoke  Prudence;  but  witb  Prudence  came  another 
speaker,  whose  voice  was  not  less  selfish  perhaps  than  hers,  but 
was  at  least  infinitely  more  seducing.  It  told  of  a  fond  young 
Sybil,  who  would  greet  him  with  bright  eyes  and  a  kiss,  who 
would  clasp  young  white  arms  around  his  neck,  and  let  him 
sleep  his  cares  away  on  her  bosom.  Mr.  Dermot  was  no  cynic. 
He  loved  woman  for  tbe  sense  of  sweetness  and  repose  which 
the  man  who  loves  a  true  woman  finds  in  her  companionship. 
He  was  no  Stoic  either,  and  that  ideal  woman  lost  none  of  her 
attractions  for  wearing  Sybil's  shape,  and  looking  at  him  witb 
Sybil's  impassioned  dark  eyes.  When  he  thought  of  her  in  that 
relation  to  himself,  he  felt  with  a  thrill  that  it  would  be  very 
sweet  to  have  ber.  But  not  to  have  ber  coldly.  Mr.  Dermot 
would  not  care  for  mere  matrimonial  barter.  If  he  was  to  think 
of  Sybil  as  a  wife,  it  must  be  as  a  wife  adoring  and  beloved ;  and 
this  thought  brought  him  back  to  the  very  point  whence  be  had 
started — was  it  possible — nay,  more,  was  it  desirable  ? 

"What  a  pity  men  and  women  cannot  discuss  some  ques- 
tions in  perfect  frankness,"  thought  Mr.  Dermot.  "  What  a  pity 
I  could  not  say  to  Sybil  awhile  back,  '  I  am  not  in  love  with 
you ;  but  say  that  you  can  love  me,  and  in  five  minutes,  ay,  in 
five  seconds,  it  will  be  done.  You  see  I  am  a  drowning  man. 
He  has  ceased  to  care  for  that  sweet  shore  called  love — he  drifts 
away  into  indifference  out  of  very  hopelessness ;  but  show  bim 
green  land  again,  and  he  will  strain  every  nerve  to  reach  it. 
Tell  me,  Sybil,  that  I  can  be  loved,  and  see  if  I  will  not  love  I 
Say  this,  and  such  as  you  are  in  sickness  or  in  health,  for  better 


328  SYBIL  S  SECOND  LOVE.  . 

or  for  worse,  I  will  take  you.  If  you  are  ill,  I  will  tend  you 
if  you  are  querulous,  I  will  bear  with  you ;  and  if  we  are  poor. 
I  will  toil  for  you.  You  shall  be  flesh  of  my  flesh,  and  heart  of 
my  heart.  I  will  love  you  in  blooming  youth,  and  beyond 
youth  and  its  bloom ;  and,  Sybil,  tell  me  if  woman  can  expect, 
or  if  man  can  give  more  ? '  " 

But  alas!  it  was  impossible  to  hold  such  language  to 
Sybil.  No  courtship  could  begin  with  such  frankness,  no  girl 
could  tolerate  it.  Love  contingent  is  not  man's  privilege,  llis 
passion,  when  declared,  must  be  full-born,  and  not  embryo. 
All  this  Mr.  Dermot  knew — he  knew  more,  too ;  and  with  an 
impatient  sigh  he  resolved  to  think  no  more  about  it.  . 

But  that  he  should  think  of  it  was  decreed. 

The  preparations  for  Mrs.  Kennedy's  ball  were  made  on  a 
grand  scale,  and  had  been  going  on  for  a  week  past.  All  this 
Sybil  had  seen  and  known,  and  had  hated  with  the  cordial  hate 
of  the  young.  But  when,  on  leaving  Mr.  Dermot,  she  entered 
the  house  and  went  to  the  library,  her  indignation  rose  at  the 
sight,  she  there  beheld.  Mrs.  Kennedy  had  suddenly  decided 
that  this  was  to  be  the  ball-room.  To  hear  was  to  obey  with 
her  husband.  To  give  the  room  due  width,  he  ordered  the 
shelves  of  books  to  be  ejected,  and  the  books  themselves  to  be 
conveyed  to  a  garret  up-stairs.  In  the  midst  of  the  noise,  dust, 
and  confusion,  Sybil  entered  unheard.  At  a  glance  she  saw 
why  and  how  this  was  taking  place.  This  room  had  once  been 
hers;  here  she  had  spent  her  happiest  hours  alone,  or,  in  the 
days  of  Uncle  Edward,  with  her  father  and  Mr.  Dermot ;  and 
now  it  was  taken  from  her;  this  pleasant  refuge  was  desecrated 
and  destroyed,  her  loved  companions  were  banished,  and  she 
must  loot  on  and  be  silent ! 

"  You  had  better  not  stay  here  in  the  dust,  Sybil,"  shortly 
said  her  father,  catching  sight  of  her  pale  face,  and  resenting  its 
meaning.  "  If  you  will  prepare  your  dress  for  to-night,  you 
will  please  me  far  more  than  by  moping  here." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  get  ready,"  coldly  replied  Sybil. 

Mr.  Kennedy  reddened  ;  he  had  not  troubled  himself  about 
his  daughter's  attire  this  time,  whilst  for  the  last  week  the  house 
had  known  nothing  but  Mrs.  Kennedy's  blue  glace,  trimmed 
with  white,  lie  turned  away  without  a  word,  whilst  Sybil  ten- 
derly gathered  up  a  heap  of  dusty  tomes  from  the  floor,  and 
took  them  up  to  her  new  abiding-place.  It  so  happened  that 
whilst  she  was  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Dermot,  wanting  a  volume, 


sybil's  second  love.  329 

learned,  with  as  little  satisfaction  as  Sybil,  that  the  garret  was 
now  the  library.  lie  went  up  to  seek  the  booh  he  required,  and 
unexpectedly  found  Sybil  there. 

She  did  not  hear  him  pushing  the  door  open,  and  he  entered 
the  garret  unseen.  She  sat  on  a  low  stool,  her  elbow  on  her 
knee,  her  cheek  on  tbe  palm  of  her  hand,  her  look  resting  dis- 
consolately on  the  book-strewn  floor.  The  window  was  wide 
open,  and  framed  a  spring  landscape,  with  a  blue  sky,  from 
which  the  stormy  clouds  had  passed  away.  It  also  let  in  the 
spring  sunshine,  which  fell  on  the  dusty  volumes,  and  on 
Sybil's  bright  young  head,  with  equal  impartiality.  These 
worm-eaten  books,  written  by  men  whose  flesh  had  long  been 
dust,  were  as  much  to  the  careless  sunbeams  as  the  fresh  young 
beauty. 

"  What  a  pity  such  a  glorious  young  creature  should  ever 
die  ! "  thought  Mr.  Dermot,  with  a  sense  of  pain. 

Oh !  death — what  is  death,  Mr.  Dermot  ? — Time,  not  death, 
is  the  destroyer  of  youth  and  beauty.  He  came  forward,  and 
Sybil,  hearing  him,  looked  up  with  a  little  start. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  asked,  gayly — "  is 
this  your  study  now  ?  " 

"  It  will  be,"  replied  Sybil — "  these  books  stay  here.  Mrs. 
Kennedy  wants  the  library  for  the  ball-room." 

Mr.  Dermot  drew  an  old,  worm-eaten  chair  from  a  comer, 
and  sat  down  on  it,  facing  Sybil. 

"  Would  you  like  them  back  again  in  their  places  ? "  he 
asked.     "  Well,  imagine  I  am  the  Fairy  Prince,  and  you  poor 
little  Cinderella,  and  let  me  get  them  back  for  you." 
'  Sybil  did  not  answer. 

""What  shall  I  get  for  my  pains  ? "  asked  Mr.  Dermot. 

"  The  glass  slipper,  if  you  like  it." 

"Glass  slippers  must  be  cool  wear,  not  to  speak  of  their 
fragility ;  but  seriously,  do  you  wish  to  have  these  books 
back?" 

"Seriouslv,  I  care  naught  about  it;  they  have  been  taken 
away — that  pained  me — to  have  them  put  back  would  not  undo 
that  pain." 

Mr.  Dermot  was  the  master  of  Saint  Vincent.  He  wondered 
if  Sybil  would  like  to  be  mistress  with  him  ?  He  wondered 
how  she  would  like  to  share  that  sweet  empire  of  home,  extend- 
in"'  from  the  garret  where  they  now  sat  to  the  utmost  limits  of 
the  garden,     lie  wondered  how  she  would  like  him  to  adorn 


330  sybil's  second  love. 

her  and  load  her  with  gifts,  and  mate  her  life  a  long  holiday, 
like  that  of  Blanche  Cains  ?  Thoughts  travel  fast,  and  Mr. 
Dermot's  thoughts  had  journeyed  very  far  indeed  since  Sybil 
and  he  had  parted.  His  meditations  had  proved  seed  cast  in  a 
soil  ready  for  them,  and  their  growth  was  quickened  by  Mr. 
Dermot's  self-questionings.  It  is  dangerous  for  a  man  whose 
heart  is  free  to  ask  himself  how  far  he  likes  an  attractive  girl  in 
whose  society  he  lives  daily,  and  it  is  doubly  dangerous  for  him 
to  do  so  when  he  is  in  her  actual  presence,  as  Mr.  Dermot  was 
now  in  Sybil's.  Cool  men  of  the  world,  indeed,  are  armor- 
proof  against  such  temptations ;  but  Mr.  Dermot  was  neither 
cool  nor  worldly.  He  had  just  escaped  from  the  toils  of  an 
unworthy  passion,  but  he  knew  that  Sybil  was  pure  and  true,  and 
that  love  bestowed  on  her  was  worthily  given.  But  would  she 
have  it  ?  Would  she  like  to  be  petted,  and  ruled,  and  caressed 
like  a  darling  child  ?  Would  this  view  of  marriage,  which  the 
difference  in  their  years  suggested,  be  as  acceptable  to  her  as  its 
vague  prospect  was  pleasant  to  him?  All  this  passed  very 
swiftly  through  his  mind  as  he  sat  looking  at  Sybil,  but  he 
should  speak,  so  he  said  gayly  : 

"  You  will  dance  to-night,  of  course  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed." 

"  Not  even  with  me  ?  " 

"  Not  even  with  you,  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  curtly  replied.  "  I 
must  appear  at  that  ball,  of  course — but  no  power  can  make  me 
dance." 

Mr.  Dermot  did  not  insist,  but  he  half  smiled  to  himself  as 
he  heard  the  stern  declaration.  He  resolved  that  Sybil  should 
dance,  and  dance  with  none  but  himself. 

"  What  will  you  wear? "  he  asked. 

"  Oh  !  white  muslin,  of  course." 

A  fair  young  Sybil,  robed  in  vapory  white  tissues,  rose  be 
fore  his  mind's  eye,  and  charmed  it. 

"You  look  wonderfully  well  in  white,  with  roses,"  he  said 
admiringly. 

Sybil  felt  uneasy,  and  wanted  to  go.  He  guessed  it,  and 
detained  her. 

"  Just  a  few  minutes,"  he  entreated  ;  "  this  is  a  godsend,  y  du 
know.     I  never  sec  you  alone." 

Sybil,  who  had  half  risen,  sat  down  again.  She  knew  she 
should  not  have  done  so,  that  she  had  no  right  to  stay  there 
with  Mr.  Dermot.     But  we  do  not  always   do  that  which  we 


sybil's  second  love.  331 

know  to  be  right,  and  the  temptation  was  strong  even  as  the 
harm  seemed  little.  But  she  soon  repented  having  yielded  to 
his  request.  Mr.  Dermot  said  little  or  nothing,  hut  Sybil  soon 
felt  that  he  was  studying  her  as  if  she  were  the  book  he  had 
come  up  to  read.  And  so  she  was  a  book  to  him  just  then,  a 
very  fair,  perplexing  book,  and  he  would  have  given  much  to 
turn  over  a  few  of  its  pages.  But,  unluckily,  Sybil  was  n^t 
willing,  and  no  Egyptian  hieroglyphic  is  harder  to  read  than  a 
reluctant  girl.  There  is  a  wildness  in  the  instinct  of  youth,  and 
a  secrecy  in  that  of  womanhood,  which,  combined,  are  enough 
to  defy  a  man's  wisdom.  Mr.  Dermot  was  baffled,  and  he 
felt  it. 

"  I  must  bide  my  time,"  he  thought. 

As  he  made  no  motion  to  let  her  go,  but  sat  in  abstracted 
silence  between  her  and  the  door,  Sybil  rose. 

"  Please  to  let  me  pass,"  she  said. 

He  rose  leisurely,  and  as  she  went  by  him  and  slipped  out 
of  the  room,  he  looked  after  her,  and  listened  to  her  little  quick 
step  going  down.  Mr.  Dermot  shook  his  head.  No,  it  would 
never  do.  She  was  too  young.  And  yet  it  was  a  pity.  No 
longer  cariug  for  the  book  he  had  come  to  seek,  he,  too,  went 
down-stairs. 


-♦-**- 


CHAPTER     XLIV. 

Much  thought,  and  care,  and  consideration  had  been  be- 
stowed by  Mrs.  Kennedy  on  this  her  first  party.  She  had 
superintended  the  ball-room,  the  supper-table,  the  selection  of  the 
guests,  and  her  own  toilet,  all-important  items,  with  zeal,  taet, 
and  prudence.  She  had  taken  every  means  to  insure  the  suc- 
cess of  this  her  greatest  undertaking,  and  it  is  gratifying  to  de- 
clare that  her  foresight  and  industry  received  their  reward.  The 
ball-room  was  pronounced  delicious,  the  supper  exquisite,  the 
people  delightful,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy's  pale  blue  silk,  and  pearls, 
and  diamonds  something  beyond  describing.  And  in  th.it  gay 
scene  who  thought  of  Sybil  ?  She  saw  the  homage  which  had 
once  been  hers,  transferred  to  her  smiling  and  handsome  step- 
mother. She  saw  herself  neglected  and  alone,  or  so  coldly  rec- 
ognized that  no  recondition   would  have  been  sweeter.     She 


332  Sybil's  second  love. 

would  not  wait  for  more  insult ;  for  so,  poor  child,  she  callea 
this  little  worldliness,  and  before  the  dancing  began,  she  with- 
drew to  the  drawing-room,  where  the  deserted  card-tables  as 
}Tet  vainly  waited  for  devoted  whist-players. 

There  she  sat  alone,  unmissed  and  wretched.  Presently  the 
orchestra  struck  up.  There  came  with  the  music  pleasant  sounds 
of  girlish  voices  and  low  laughs — a  vague  murmur  which  once 
had  filled  Sybil's  heart  with  delight.  That  time  was  gone.  Very 
sad  had  been  her  experience  of  life  for  the  last  year.  Her  lover 
had  proved  false  ;  her  friend  had  betrayed  her.  She  had  given 
her  love  to  a  man  who  loved  another  woman,  and  who,  even 
when  he  ceased  to  love,  felt  nothing  for  her  beyond  friendship. 
Her  father's  affections  had  grown  cold,  and  the  world  itself  had 
forsaken  her.     Who  heeded  her  absence  to-night? — no  one. 

A  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Dermot  entered  the  room.  He 
had  missed  her  at  once,  and  he  now  came  for  her.  His  looks 
told  her  so,  even  before  his  words  confirmed  it. 

"  Sybil,  what  ails  you  ? "  he  said,  anxiously. 

"  My  head  aches." 

"Are  you  sure  of  it,  Sybil?"  he  asked,  sitting  down  by  her. 

Sybil  did  not  answer. 

"  I  think  it  is  your  heart  that  aches.  I  even  think  it  aches 
very  bitterly  just  now." 

"  And  vours,  Mr.  Dermot  ?  " 

"  I  am  cured,  Sybil." 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  moodily. 

"I  wish  I  could  cure  you,"  he  resumed.  "I  think  I  could, 
if  you  would  let  me." 

"  How  so  ? " 

"  I  would  prove  she  is  not  worth  regretting,  for  instance." 

"  I  know  it ;  but  it  is  not  Blanche  Cains  I  regret — it  is  the 
friendship." 

"  Take  another  friend." 

"  AVill  you  take  another  love  ?  "  asked  Sybil,  her  dark  eyes 
flashing:. 

Mr.  Dermot  hesitated,  and  even  colored  a  little.  Tie  was 
very  much  inclined  to  take  another  love  just  then  ;  but  he 
was  not  sure  enough  of  it  to  say  so. 

"  Jf  I  could  find  a  true  heart,"  he  answered,  at  length, 
"  I  know  what  I  should  do.  But  that  is  not  the  question. 
I  offer  you  a  true  friend — why  not  take  him  ?  " 

There  was  a  persuasive  tenderness  in  his  voice  which  stirred 
the  depths  of  Sybil's  heart. 


sybil's  second  love.  333 

"  I  do  not  refuse  your  friendship,"  she  said  ;  "  but — " 

"  No  '  buts,'  Sybil.  I  know  very  well  you  will  not  come 
to  me  with  your  crochet,  and  show  me  '  that  sweet  stitch,' 
nor  will  you  open  your  whole  heart  to  me  as  you  would  to 
a  sister-like  Mend;  but  for  all  that  we  can  be  friends — true 
friends ;  and  I  wish  you  would  let  me  begin  my  office  by 
comforting  you.  You  are  getting  thin — I  fear  you  have  sleep- 
less nights.  It  is  a  mortal  pity,  Sybil,  to  waste  youth  and 
good  looks  for  that  false  lady.  Now,  you  know,  your  head 
does  not  ache.  Why  should  you  not  dance  and  hunt  away 
care  for  to-night  ?     Confess  that  music  sounds  very  tempting." 

Alas !  the  temptation  was  not  ia  the  waltz  of  Strauss.  It 
was  in  his  kindness,  in  his  looks,  in  his  voice  and  its  tones, 
60  tender  and  so  true,  which  melted  all  Sybil's  bitterness 
away.  Sybil  felt  ashamed  that  these  few  words  of  his  should 
change  as  they  did  the  current  of  her  thoughts,  and  substi- 
tute, as  if  by  magic,  joy  to  grief — serenity  to  discontent.  She 
felt  ashamed,  for  she  thought — 

"  It  is  all  his  goodness ;  he  does  not  care  for  me,  but  it 
is  all  his  goodness." 

Sybil  little  suspected  that  goodness  and  Mr.  Dermot  had 
nothing  to  do  with  each  other  just  then.  He  was  making  a 
venture.  He  was  trying  to  succeed  as  a  friend  before  he 
assumed,  if  he  ever  he  did  assume,  the  part  of  a  lover.  He  did 
not  think  Sybil  so  very  young  and  so  very  childlike  now,  and 
it  seemed  a  pity  to  reject  this  fair  young  creature  without  giv- 
ing himself  a  chance  of  her.  That  her  fancv  for  Count  de 
Renneville  was  over  he  knew,  and  also  that  it  had  never  been 
more  than  a  generous,  romantic  girl's  fancy.  And  yet  she  who 
had  been  capable  of  it — she  who  now  bewailed  so  passionately 
the  loss  of  her  false  friend — was  not  heartless  or  cold.  It 
would  be  pleasant — more  than  pleasant,  it  would  be  happiness 
both  exquisite  and  deep — to  waken  that  sleeping  heart  and  di- 
vert it  from  foolish  and  useless  repining  to  the  fervor  of  a  true 
love.  True,  it  might  not  be  possible — not  possible  at  least  to 
him — but  the  chance  was  worth  the  trial,  even  though  that 
trial  itself  was  not  without  its  dangers.  Of  these  Mr.  Dermot 
was  quite  aware.  He  knew  that  in  the  pursuit  he  was  now  en- 
gaged in,  the  heart  that  was  sought  had  not  always  been  won, 
and  the  heart  that  was  seeking  had  sometimes  been  lost.  He 
knew  it,  but  he  was  willinc  to  run  the  risk  for  the  sake  of  the 
gain;  and  he  began  his  enterprise  by  trying  both  to  please  and 


334  sybil's  second  love. 

to  rule  the  wayward  girl  he  wished  to  win.  He  little  knew  how 
easy  was  the  task,  nor  how  his  work  was  already  done.  So 
he  did  his  best  according  to  the  fashion  of  his  kind.  He 
dropped  the  rather  abrupt  kindness  of  his  manner,  and  substi- 
tuted for  it,  by  fine,  graduated  changes,  a  manner  friendly  still, 
but  respectful,  and  more  tender  than  kind.  It  was  this  change 
which  Sybil  felt  at  once — it  was  this  which  accomplished,  with- 
out effort,  part  of  his  double  purpose.  Mr.  Dermot  was  deter- 
mined to  make  Sybil  dance,  with  himself,  of  course,  and  he 
again  derided  the  headache  and  bade  her  listen  to  the  music. 
Poor  Sybil  could  not  resist  him.  Every  fibre  of  her  being 
seemed  to  yield  as  he  spoke,  and  when  he  rose  and  gave  her 
his  arm,  as  a  matter  of  course,  she  took  it  with  a  thrill  of  hap- 
piness, and  a  blush  of  mingled  joy  and  shame. 

They  entered  the  ball-room  quietly.  It  was  gay,  bright,  and 
pretty.  No  sooner  was  this  waltz  over  than  another  began,  and 
Sybil  and  her  partner  were  in  it. 

It  is  an  easy  task  for  a  man  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  the 
girl  who  loves  him.  Mr.  Dermot  did  his  best,  and  for  the  time 
being,  at  least,  he  made  Sybil — though  he  was  far  from  suspect- 
ing it — supremely  blest. 

"  I  know  I  shall  be  wretched  to-morrow,"  she  thought,  "but 
never  mind,  I  am  happy  to-night." 

That  she  had  put  by  her  cares,  Mr.  Dermot  saw  plainly. 
Her  cheeks  had  got  back  their  roses-,  and  their  sunny  lustre  had 
returned  to  her  dark  eyes.  She  was  the  prettiest  girl  in  the 
room.  None  with  whom  he  compared  her  seemed  to  him  to 
compete  with  this  maiden  flower.  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  by  far 
handsomer,  but  she  had  not  those  happy  young  eyes,  nor  those 
childlike  parted  lips,  nor  that  supple  grace  of  motion.  They 
danced  together  for  the  best  part  of  the  evening ;  and  when 
Sybil,  frightened  at  the  cold  look  of  her  step-mother,  asked  to 
rest,  Mr.  Dermot  danced  with  no  one  else,  but  sat  by  her  and 
kept  her  company.  Of  course  there  were  plenty  of  people  who 
saw  this,  and  secretly  drew  their  conclusions;  but  Mr.  Dermot 
did  not  care,  and  Sybil,  who  did  care,  was  far  from  imagining  that 
these  conclusions  might  not  be  very  wide  of  the  truth.  Old  fa- 
miliarity, the  certainty  of  his  indifference,  deceived  her.  If  Mr. 
Dermot  had  been  in  love  with  her  indeed,  she  would  soon  have 
found  it  out.  But  this  test  was  wanting.  The  touchstone  would 
not  apply.  Mr.  Dermot  was  not  in  love  yet,  though  we  will  not 
answer  for  the  future.    Love  comes  in  many  wavs.     Sometimes 


Sybil's  second  love.  335 

it  subdues  and  conquers  "without  a  warning,  and  sometimes  again 
it  takes  you  by  the  hand  and  gently  leads  you  along  until  your 
bondage  is  completed.  Amongst  those  who  watched  and  conjec- 
tured, was  Mr.  Kennedy.  He  observed  his  wife,  his  daughter,  and 
his  friend.  lie  saw  something  in  Mrs.  Kennedy's  face  which  he 
did  not  like — a  sort  of  haggard  look,  which  all  her  smiles  could 
not  disguise.  He  saw  little  Sybil's  enraptured  eyes,  and  could  read 
or  guess  their  story.  Mr.  Dermot's  countenance,  too,  had  its 
tale.  A  contentment,  a  pleasure,  and  a  hope  were  there,  which 
Mr.  Kennedy  scarcely  expected  so  soon.  But  then,  whispered 
paternal  pride,  Sybil  was  so  charming !  But  Mr.  Kennedy's 
was  no  unmixed  joy.  Was  what  he  saw  the  cause  of  his  wife's 
secret  torment  ?  It  put  him  in  a  parching  fever  to  think  of  it. 
He  resolved  to  know  the  truth,  and  to  know  it  at  once. 

The  supper  was  over,  the  guests  were  gone,  and  Mr.  Dermot's 
low  and  kind  good-night  still  rang  in  Sybil's  ears,  filling  her 
poor  little  foolish  heart  with  bliss,  when  her  father's  voice  ar- 
rested her  as  she  was  going  up-stairs. 

"  Come  in  here — I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said,  opening 
the  door  of  the  vacant  drawing-room. 

Sybil  obeyed.  Mr.  Kennedy  closed  the  door  carefully,  and 
began  without  preamble. 

"Mr.  Dermot  was  very  attentive  to  you  this  evening." 

Sybil  started  at  so  unexpected  a  remark. 
You  danced  with  no  one  else.     Has  he  proposed  to  you?" 

"  No,"  stammered  Sybil,  turning  crimson. 

"  What,  neither  this  evening  nor  at  any  other  time  ?  " 

"  No — never." 

Sybil  was  truth  itself — so  it  was  his  wife  who  had  told  the  lie. 

"  But  have  you  not  had  reason  to  believe  that  he  might 
do  so?" 

"  Never,"  said  Sybil  again. 

Mr.  Kennedy's  lip  quivered.  For  a  moment  he  forgot  Sybil, 
and  he  saw  himself  the  duped  and  deceived  husband;  but  he 
caught  his  daughter's  wondering  glance  and  he  smiled. 

"Well,  Sybil,"  he  said,  " I  believe  that  Mr.  Dermot  does 
mean  to  propose  to  you — mind,  he  has  not  told  me  so — but  I 
believe  it ;  and  if  he  should  do  so,  I  wish  to  tell  you  before- 
hand that  you  cannot  please  me  better  than  by  accepting  him." 

He  looked  at  her  shrewdly ;  but  there  was  little  need. 
Sybil's  blushing,  guilty  face  required  no  comment.  He  sighed 
heavily.     His  wife  was  jealous  of  his  daughter,  and  his  daughter 


336  Sybil's  second  love. 

loved  the  man  who,  for  all  lie  knew,  loved  his  wife.  It  was 
very  dreary. 

"  That  is  all  I  bad  to  say  to  you,  Sybil,"  be  resumed,  in  a 
dull  tone  ;  "  I  lay  no  constraint  upon  you — I  promise  nothing 
for  him — you  are  both  free.  But  if  his  attentions  do  not  please 
you,  do  not  accept  them,  as  you  did  to-night.  Good  night, 
child — sleep  well,  if  you  can." 

Sybil  went  up  and  kissed  his  cheet.  lie  scarcely  heeded 
the  caress.  Father  and  daughter  slept  but  ill  that  night.  One 
lay  awake  in  a  fever  of  wrath,  jealousy,  and  brooding  revenge, 
and  the  other,  tossed  on  billows  of  uneasy  bliss,  could  not  close 
her  eyes  for  excess  of  happiness.  He  loved  her  ! — for  thus  she 
construed  her  father's  words — he  loved  her !  Was  that  why  he 
had  so  soon  been  cured  of  his  grief  for  Blanche  Cains  ? — was 
that  his  meaning  when  he  told  her  to  marry  ?  Oh !  life — sweet, 
delicious  life ! 


-*♦♦- 


CHAPTER     X  L  V . 

Mrs.  Kennedy's  ball  had  proved  no  particular  source  of 
enjoyment  to  Denise.  This  discreet  handmaiden  held  dancing 
in  horror.  She  was  always  amazed,  she  was,  that  so  fatiguing 
an  exercise  was  taken  as  a  pleasure  by  sensible  people.  More- 
over, her  new  mistress  did  not  stand  high  in  her  good  graces, 
and,  to  crown  all,  a  terrible  deal  of  cleaning  and  sweeping  was 
the  inevitable  result,  and  Denise  resented  extra  work  as  a  per- 
sonal injury. 

She  was  full  of  her  wrongs  on  the  morning  that  followed 
the  day  of  the  party,  when  a  voice  from  the  cloister  made  her 
look  out  of  the  open  window.  She  saw  the  postman,  who 
handed  her  a  packet  of  letters,  and  hurried  away.  One  of  these 
letters  was  large  and  square ;  and  Denise,  who  did  not  know 
how  to  read,  was  turning  it  over  curiously,  when  Sybil  came  in 
upon  her,  looking  as  radiant  as  a  sunbeam. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  poring  over  these  letters  for  ?  "  she 
asked  gayly — "  you  want  me  to  read  the  directions  ?  These  are 
for  papa,  Denise,  and  this  big  one  is  for  Monsieur  Dermot,  and 
there  is  none  for  me,  so  good-morning." 

She  lightly  climbed  up  on  the  window-sill,  and  jumped  down 


sybil's  second  love.  337 

into  the  cloister.  It  was  full  of  sunshine,  as  Sybil's  beart  was 
full  of  gladness.  She  shipped  across  it,  singing  as  she  went. 
She  ran  down  a  garden  path,  blithe  as  any  bird.  The  verdure 
of  spring  was  around  her.  April  softness  was  in  the  air  and  in 
the  pearly  sky. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  happy  !  "  thought  Sybil ;  but  suddenly  she 
caught  sight  of  Mr.  Dermot,  and,  afraid  of  him,  more  afraid  of 
herself,  she  ran  away  before  he  could  reach  her.  She  had 
slipped  so  cunningly  between  the  hedgerows,  that  Mr.  Dermot 
never  suspected  her  escape  until  he  entered  the  path  where  he 
hoped  to  find  her.  He  cast  a  disappointed  look  around  him — 
a  look  which  from  the  spot  where  she  was  hiding,  Sybil  could 
see,  and  whilst  he  searched  for  her  in  one  direction,  she  glided 
away  in  another. 

Mr.  Dermot  did  not  break  his  heart  for  her  absence.  He 
sat  clown  on  a  bench,  took  out  a  cigar,  and  smoked,  and  thought 
over  it  all  once  more.  His  mind  was  all  but  made  up,  and  his 
only  wonder  was  that  so  pleasant  a  conclusion  to  thirty  odd 
years  of  celibacy  had  not  occurred  to  him  earlier.  Sybil  was 
delightful,  and  though,  of  course,  she  could  not  be  fond  of  him 
yet,  it  would  be  very  hard  if,  with  all  his  opportunities,  he  could 
not  make  her  so.  Mr.  Dermot's  cigar  was  out,  and  he  had 
plenty  of  work  waiting  for  him  within ;  but  this  day-dream  was 
very  sweet.  It  was  like  the  morning,  cloudless  and  fair,  and  he 
could  not  leave  that  pleasant  spot.  A  step  on  the  gravel  path 
roused  him.  It  was  Denise  with  the  letter.  Mr.  Dermot  said 
not  a  word  as  he  took  it,  but  he  felt  a  presentiment  of  evil. 

"  If  it  be  so,"  he  thought,  ere  he  broke  the  seal,  "  I  shall 
give  her  up." 

The  letter  was  from  Mr.  Dermot's  Irish  lawyer,  and  was 
significant  and  brief. 

"Sir:  A  fair  young  man  came  to  the  '  Moonagh  Herald 
office,'  yesterday,  and  asked  for  all  the  numbers  of  that  paper 
for  last  July.     If  I  learn  more,  I  shall  let  you  know. 

Yours,  etc., 

John  O'Kekfe." 
"  P.  S. — The  young  man  seemed  disappointed  to  get  none." 

Mr.  Dermot  bit  his  lip,  and  tried  to  feel  calm,  but  he  could 
not.      Anger,  powerless,  though    bitter,  possessed   him.       At 
length  he  compelled  himself  to  think  soberlv  over  it   all.     His 
15 


338  sybil's  second  love. 

first  thought  was  for  Sybil.  The  peril  which  had  slept  awhile 
had  risen  anew. 

"Good-by,  Sybil,"  thought  Mr.  Dermot,  with  a  pang; 
"you  are  a  fine  pearl  in  a  rare  setting,  and  I  was  covetous,  and 
thought  to  call  you  mine,  and  wear  you,  but  it  cannot  be." 

Mr.  Dermot  was  right.  It  could  not  be.  A  very  dark 
cloud  hung  over  his  life  just  then ;  he  could  not  bring  his  poor 
little  Sybil,  so  gentle,  so  tender,  so  softly  reared,  within  the 
vortex  of  that  lowering  storm.  But  it  was  hard,  and  his  heart 
ached.  With  that  pang  came  another  thought.  He  had  not 
gone  very  far  with  Sybil,  but  still  his  conscience  told  him  that 
he  had  taken  a  few  steps  on  the  road  of  courtship.  If  she 
had  not  preceived  it,  others  had.  What  would  they  say  to 
Sybil  ?  Would  they  accuse  him  ?  and  would  she  believe  them  ? 
Why  not  speak  openly  to  her  ? — as  openly,  at  least,  as  he 
could  ?  Rather  eagerly  Mr.  Dermot  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  would  be  wise  to  do  so.  If  he  had  searched  into  the 
cause  of  that  eagerness,  he  might  have  found  hope,  secret  and 
remote  ;  but  he  was  more  anxious  to  act  than  to  question  him- 
self just  then,  and  guessing  where  he  should  find  Sybil,  he 
forthwith  went  to  seek  her. 

Sybil  had  taken  refuge  in  the  garret.  Her  heart  was  full 
of  a  feeling  in  which  pain  blended,  for  it  was  too  tumultuous  for 
happiness.  She  sat  with  the  books  around  her,  and  one  lay 
open  on  her  lap ;  but  Sybil  was  not  reading  its  pages.  She 
was  turning  a  leaf  in  her  own  book,  and  she  could  not  weary 
of  its  meaning.  Fairy  tales  had  come  true  to  her,  after  all,  and 
there  was  magic  in  life,  and  sweet  romance.  Mr.  Dcrmot's 
new  manner  confirmed  her  father's  words.  But  Sybil  wondered 
when  and  how  it  would  be.  Had  it  been  coming  long  to  him 
as  to  her?  She  knew  he  had  always  admired  her — what  girl 
does  not  know  that? — had  that  admiration  any  share  in  his 
ready  renunciation  of  Blanche  Cains?  Oh!  what  a  sweet, 
avenging  thought  that  would  be  ! — what  a  balm  to  all  her 
wrongs!  Not  that  she  wished  him  to  have  been  faithless,  but 
yet,  if  he  could  have  liked  Blanche  less  for  her  sake,  she  would 
not  mind  it.  What  would  he  say,  she  wondered,  when  it  came 
to  the  point  of  speaking  between  them  ?  Sybil  was  almost 
frightened  at  the  thought.  Her  own  heart  was  full  to  overflow- 
ing,  only  she  was  a  girl,  and  must  be  silent.  He,  the  man,  could 
speak — what  would  he  say  ?  Not  much,  she  fancied,  but  a  few 
deep-felt  words,  which  she  would  remember  forever. 


sybil's  second  love.  339 

As  she  came  to  this  conclusion,  tlie  door  opened,  and  Mr. 
Dermot  stood  before  her.  His  face  told  Sybil  why  he  had 
sought  her  here.  Her  heart  leaped  in  her  mouth,  and  she  felt 
herself  turning  crimson,  but  she  sat  with  her  back  to  the  light ; 
he  could  not  see  her  well — at  least,  she  hoped  so.  Mr.  Dermot 
drew  the  old  broken  chair  forward,  and  sat  down  by  her  with- 
out a  word.  Now  that  it  had  come  to  the  point,  he  found  it 
very  hard  not  to  speak — but  to  give  her  up  !  He  might  search 
long  before  he  found  another  girl  like  her — so  genuine,  so 
bright,  so  pretty,  too.  This  dream  of  a  day  had  already  taken 
so  strong  a  hold  of  him,  that  he  could  not  bear  to  relinquish  it. 
But  he  caught  Sybil's  surprised  look,  and  feeling  he  must  say 
something,  Mr.  Dermot  glanced  at  the  book  on  her  lap.  It  was 
a  volume  of  Tasso's.  At  once  Mr.  Dermot,  who  had  a  fluent 
tongue,  grew  eloquent  upon  the  unhappy  poet. 

"  But  he  should  never  have  loved  Leonora,"  he  added, 
rather  sadly;  "  there  are  men  to  whom  love  is  forbidden,  Sybil," 
he  added,  taking  her  hand — "do  you  remember  asking  me  last 
night  if  I  would  take  another  love  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Sybil,  with  a  beating  heart,  "  I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  shall  I  tell  you  what  that  question  suggested  ? 
It  suggested,  or  rather,  it  confirmed  a  thought  which  was  haunt- 
ing me — namely,  that  it  would  be  very  sweet  to  have  a  love 
like  you.  It  was  a  temptation,  Sybil,  for  this  morning  brings 
me  tidings  which  bid  me  overcome  it.  I  must  leave  this  place 
— leave  you  for  a  time — perhaps  forever.  My  lot  has  suddenly 
grown  so  dark,  that  I  like  you  far  too  well  to  have  you,  even  if 
you  would  have  me,  Sybil." 

The  hand  which  he  held  trembled,  then  turned  like  ice 
within  his  clasp.  A  gray  paleness  spread  over  Sybil's  face ; 
her  white  lips  quivered.  The  shock  of  so  cruel  a  disappoint- 
ment conquered  her  self-command.  In  a  second  Mr.  Dermot 
saw  it  all ;  his  heart  gave  a  great  throb,  like  that  of  a  man  who 
had  found  a  sudden  treasure  on  his  path.  There  seemed  to 
rush  before  his  eyes  a  mist,  in  which  her  image  trembled.  On 
rash  -and  burning  wing  came  passion,  suddenly  fanning  into 
flame  the  secret  fire  which  had  hidden  in  his  heart  so  long. 
Sybil,  Sybil,  had  you  loved  him  all  this  time,  and  suffered  for 
him  ?  The  thought  enchanted  him,  for  love  is  cruel,  and  this 
unsought  boon  of  a  wayward  girl  avenged  Mr.  Dermot  forever 
on  Blanche  Cains.  What  cared  he  now  for  her  treason,  and 
his  trust  betrayed?  Sybil,  young,  lovely,  and  proud,  had  loved 
him  ! 


3*0  sybil's  second  love. 

Sybil  by  tbis  Lad  recovered  tbe  composure  wbich  never 
long  deserts  a  true  woman.  Sbe  drew  ber  band  from  bis,  and 
said,  calmly : 

"  Feel  no  uneasiness,  Mr.  Dei-mot,  and  take  no  blame  to 
yourself.     You  are,  and  bave  ever  been  quite  free." 

Sbe  looked  very  calm  and  cold.     His  face  fell. 

"  And  yon  do  not  want  to  know  wbat  new  trouble  tbis  is 
tbat  is  coming  to  me  now,  Sybil  %  " 

"  No,"  sbe  replied,  rising,  and  going  to  tbe  door — "  tbat  is 
your  business,  not  mine." 

Sbe  met  tbe  look  of  keen  reproacb  wbicb  be  cast  toward 
ber.  Her  hand  trembled  on  tbe  lock.  Love  and  pride  bad  a 
fierce  battle  in  ber  beart ;  tben  love  so  far  conquered,  tbat,  with- 
out looking  at  him,  sbe  said  : 

''  I  am  sorry  for  your  trouble — wbat  more  can  I  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Sybil,"  be  replied,  a  bttle  reproachfully — 
"Trouble  and  I  are  old  friends.  Thirty-one  years  this  day 
bave  we  been  acquainted." 

"  Your  birthday  !  "  said  Sybil — "  tbis  is  really  your  birth- 
day?" 

"What  about  it,  Sybil? — what  are  our  birthdays  once 
youth  is  over  ?  Ah  !  then,  indeed,  each  is  a  new  gate  to  a  new 
world ;  but  later  they  may  come  and  go — we  heed  them  not. 
We  know  that  closed  forever  is  the  door  which  let  us  in  to  hope, 
to  desire — to  all  that  which  life  does  not  yield  twice  to  man." 

"  And  does  he  feel  so  ? "  thought  Sybil,  sadly. 

He  caught  her  look  and  answered  it. 

"  Yes,  Sybil ;  but  for  all  tbat,  I  too  could  be  young  again, 
for,  after  all,  I  am  not  so  old  but  I  could  take  a  few  steps  back, 
and  drink,  if  need  be,  from  tbe  fountain  of  all  youth.  But  cui 
bono  ?  I  could  not  do  so  without  bitter  sorrow  to  myself  and  to 
others — better  remain  as  I  am  forever,  Sybil ! " 

She  did  not  speak — what  could  she  say  ? 

"  Come,  be  my  casuist,  and  resolve  me  tbis,"  he  said,  rising, 
and  going  up  to  her.  "  Imagine  my  case  yours  ;  say  that  there 
is  a  dark  spot  in  your  life  which,  though  hidden  now,  may  ap- 
pear some  day ;  and  tell  me,  such  being  tbe  case,  whether  you 
must  live  alone,  or  bind  your  lot  to  that  of  another  ?" 

Sybil  understood  him  very  well.  She  turned  pale  as  death, 
but  she  answered,  firmly: 

"  I  should  do  my  duty,  Mr.  Dermot." 

"Well,  then,  Sybil,  pity  me,"  be  said,  with  much  emotion, 


sybil's  second  love.  341 

"  for  I  cannot  do  mine.  Duty  bids  me  be  silent,  and  love  bids 
me  speak.  Sybil,  I  love  you,  and  do  not  know  bow  to  give 
yon  up.  Tbis  trouble  may  be  but  a  passing  cloud,  and  if  it 
sbould  indeed-pass  away,  will  you  not  let  me  remind  you  of  to- 
day and  last  night  ? " 

His  voice  was  very  sweet — very  persuasive ;  bis  look  over- 
flowed witb  fond  entreaty.  Oh  !  if  Sybil  had  dared,  how  she 
would  have  cried,  "  Let  me  share  all  your  troubles  ! "  But  she 
would  not  say  it,  so  sbe  replied — 

"  No,  Mr.  Dermot,  Ave  must  not  talk  of  tbis  again.  It  was 
a  fancy,  or  the  first  wind  of  trouble  would  not  have  quenched 
it.  It  was  a  temptation,  and  you  overcame  it — I  must  be  more 
than  either  fancy  or  temptation  to  the  man  who  wishes  for  me. 
Above  all,  he  must  not  doubt  his  power  of  making  me  happy — 
no,  indeed,  Mr.  Dermot,  be  must  not." 

She  spoke  with  a  touch  of  her  old  sauciness,  for  she  felt  sure 
of  him.  His  old  admiration  had  ripened  fast  into  tenderness. 
His  old  liking  had  melted  into  love,  and  Sybil  saw  it  very  well. 
He  had  begun  their  explanation  by  claiming  his  liberty,  and  be 
had  ended  it  by  laying  that  liberty  at  her  feet.  It  was  a  flame, 
indeed,  which  had  been  caught  from  the  fire  of  her  own  heart, 
and  Sybil  guessed  it ;  but  what  of  that  ? — some  one  must  love 
first,  and  what  she  had  begun  he  should  end,  or  she  would 
never  have  him.  In  that  spirit  she  spoke,  and  Mr.  Dermot 
hiked  her  none  the  less  for  it. 

"  You  are  right,  Sybil,"  he  said,  "  to  set  a  high  value  on 
yourself,  but  you  can  never  set  it  higher  than  I  do." 

"  Ah !  you  are  too  kind  to  me  !  "  cried  Sybil — "  do  not — do 
not !     I  am  not  good  enough  to  bear  it." 

"  I  want  you  to  be  very  kind  to  me,  too,  some  day,"  said 
Mr.  Dermot,  smiling,  "  so  I  begin  first." 

Sybil  began  to  get  a  little  frightened.  This  seemed  very 
like  actual  love-making,  and  she  was  not  sure  of  her  fortitude. 
It  might  be  jest  as  yet  to  him,  but  it  was  very  earnest  to  her. 
But  she  rallied,  and  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest,  sbe  said  : 

"  If  you  want  me  to  be  kind,  that  is  not  the  way." 

And  opening  the  door,  she  half  went  out. 

"Stav,"  he  said,  detaining  her — "if  that  is  not  the  way, 
what  is?" 

"  Oh  !  you  must  find  that  out,"  replied  Sybil,  gayly,  though 
her  heart  rather  beat  as  she  uttered  the  daring  speech. 

She  said  it  gayly,  but  her  heart  was  full  as  she  turned  away 


342  Sybil's  second  love. 

quickly,  for  what  if  lie  should  never  care  to  find  it  out,  after  all 
But  he  did  care — he  did  care  infinitely,  though  he  had  self- 
command  enough  not  to  detain  her.  The  knowledge  that  he 
was  beloved  had  wakened  into  young  and  fervent  life  his  wearied 
and  slumbering  heart.  Oh !  if  he  could  but  have  conquered 
every  obstacle,  and  consumed  time,  as  fire  consumes  and  devours 
whatever  we  throw  into  it.  He  paced  that  lonely  garret  with 
troubled  steps,  remembering  how  he  had  found  her  there — how 
her  little  cold  hand  had  lain  dead  within  his — how,  if  he  had 
wished  it,  she  would  have  given  herself  to  him  there  and  then. 
A  book,  which  nearly  made  him  stumble,  changed  his  thoughts. 
It  was  Tasso,  which  had  fallen  from  Sybil's  lap  on  the  floor. 
Mr.  Dermot  picked  up  the  little  volume,  and  smiled  as  he  put  it 
in  his  pocket.  For,  with  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  he 
thought  of  the  day — a  speedy  one,  he  hoped — when  he  would 
return  it  to  her  with  a  kiss. 

And  the  cloud,  and  the  storm  that  threatened  him,  and  the 
enemy  who  was  perhaps  on  the  watch  to  ruin  him  in  honor  and 
fame — had  Mr.  Dermot  forgotten  them  \  He  had  not,  but  scorn 
and  hope  combined  in  him  now;  he  felt  defiant  and  reckless. 

"  Let  her,"  he  thought,  as  he  passed  Mrs.  Kennedy's  door,  and 
heard  her  laughing  within — "  let  her,  the  traitress  !  I  will  love 
and  marry  Sybil  Kennedy,  and  she  shall  look  on  and  see  it ! " 


CHAPTER     XLVI. 

The  future  rarely  fashions  itself  according  to  our  fears,  or  to 
our  desires.  When  she  was  once  more  alone,  Sybil  felt  as  if  she 
must  have  dreamed,  not  heard  and  spoken,  all  that  had  passed 
between  herself  and  Mr.  Dermot.  How  unlike  her  hopes  was 
their  fulfilment !     How  different  from  her  imaginings  the  reality ! 

"And  yet,"  whispered  a  sweet  voice,  as  she  sat  in  her  room, 
her  heart  still  beating  with  mingled  doubt  and  joy — "and  yet, 
remember  his  look  when  you  parted.  Remember  last  night  and 
the  day  when  you  and  he  walked  by  the  beach,  and  yesterday 
in  the  garden,  too.  Remember  Mrs.  Mush.  He  has  long  been 
on  the  brink  of  love,  and  if  he  long  hesitated  to  cross  it,  why, 
the  greater,  the  surer  your  victory." 

Lut  vanity  and  her  triumphs  had  no  hold  over  Sybil's  heart. 


sybil's  second  loye.  343 

"  I  do  not  care  about  victory,"  she  thought,  "  hut  I  want  to 
be  loved,  aud  loved  infinitely,  and  forever.  It  would  make  me 
none  the  happier  if  his  pride  were  humbled  in  the  dust,  but  I 
should  like  him  to  want  me,  aud  not  to  be  able  to  do  without 
me.  I  know  be  likes  me — I  know  he  admires  me — but  I  know, 
too,  he  could  do  without  me  any  day,  and  I  cannot  endure  the 
thought." 

But  many  are  the  voices  which  speak  to  a  girl's  heart.  And 
one,  a  subtle  one,  which  spoke  in  whispers,  and  scarcely  seemed 
to  use  language,  so  faint  were  its  suggestions,  now  said  that  since 
there  was  liking,  and  admiration,  and  the  will  to  love,  Sybil 
could  help  all  these  to  ripen  into  affection,  enduring  and  strong. 
But  how  so  ?  And  then  came  dreams  of  wonderful  goodness, 
and  sweetness,  and  tender  and  meek  bearing ;  but  alas  for  the 
logic  of  her  years !  Then,  also,  came  to  Sybil  the  firm  resolve 
aud  will  of  beinrr  as  handsome  as  she  could.  The  task  is  not 
easy  to  all,  for  to  some  Nature  is  a  step-mother,  but  to  Sybil  she 
had  been  gracious.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and 
blushed  as  she  looked,  and,  though  alone,  half-turned  away  in 
secret  shame. 

"And  if  I  am  pretty,  and  if  he  sees  it,  aud  likes  me  for  it, 
can  I  help  prizing  his  liking?"  she  thought,  in  self-justification. 

But  across  this  smote  another  thought,  sudden  and  bitter. 
What  trouble  was  it  that  threatened  him  now,  and  might,  per- 
haps, sunder  them  forever?  She  had  refused  to  know,  and 
now  she  could  not  go  and  ask  him.  The  friend  was  gone  for- 
ever, and  the  lover  was  not  yet  her  own.  Chill  and  dreary  came 
to  Sybil  the  couviction  that  she  was  very  far  from  Mr.  Dermot, 
after  all.  But  when  did  love  and  youth  linger  over  gloomy 
thoughts  whilst  there  was  room  for  hope  ?  lie  had  not  told 
her  from  what  quarter  his  trouble  came,  but  Sybil  knew  it.  It 
must  be  from  Blanche  Cains.  Oh  !  if  she  could  help  him — if 
she  could  watch,  or  guard,  or  foresee !  If  she  could  do  aught 
to  help  or  to  save  him  ! 

"  Why  not  I — why  not  ? "  she  thought,  walking  up  and  down 
her  room  in  an  excited  mood.  "She  deceived  me  once,  not  so 
much  because  I  was  foolish  as  because  I  was  trusting ;  but  I 
have  cleverness  enough  to  read  through  her  now.  Why  should 
I  not  try  ?  I  know  Mr.  Smith  is  in  it.  Well,  then,  nothing 
that  concerns  Mr.  Smith  shall  pass  in  this  house  without  my 
knowledge." 

A  little  reflection  might  have  convinced  Sybil  that  as  Mr. 


344  Sybil's  secoxd  love. 

Smith's  name  had  not  been  mentioned  in  Saint  Vincent  foi 
weeks,  and  even  months,  her  resolve,  however  earnest,  was  not 
very  likely  to  assist  Mr.  Dermot  out  of  his  trouble.  But  Sybil 
forgot  this.  She  only  felt  her  own  eagerness  and  strong  will, 
and  began  her  watching  that  very  moment. 

Ever  since  her  return  to  Saint  Vincent,  Mrs.  Kennedy  had 
lived  in  a  round  of  gayeties,  and  worked  her  way  up  as  the  ac- 
knowledged star  of  that  little  world.  She  rapidly  rose  in  Mrs. 
Ronald's  favor,  and  supplanted  Sybil  without  trouble.  That 
lady  coolly  set  Sybil  aside,  and  covertly  expressed  her  disap- 
probation of  Miss  Kennedy's  sad  looks.  She  liked  rebellion 
and  disobedience  under  no  shape,  she  said,  and  Miss  Kennedy 
required  some  friend  to  remind  her  of  her  duty.  That  friend 
she  once  or  twice  attempted  to  be,  to  Sybil's  scarcely  concealed 
wrath  and  indignation.  Now,  whilst  Sybil  was  in  her  room, 
Mrs.  Ronald  was  in  the  drawing-room  below,  and  Sybil  knew 
it.  At  another  time  this  would  have  been  reason  sufficient  for 
Sybil  to  stay  up-stairs,  but  in  her  present  mood  she  felt  im- 
pelled to  go  down,  and  down  she  went. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  were  with  their  visitor ;  both  were 
very  cheerful.  Mrs.  Mush  helped  to  entertain  the  autocrat  of 
Saint  Vincent,  and  Mrs.  Ronald  was  gracious  and  rather  con- 
descending; whilst  her  companion,  Miss  Spencer,  nursed  the 
dog  and  was  mute.  They  both  acknowledged  Sybil  with  a  cool 
politeness,  which  showed  her  once  more  what  she  was  now  in 
her  father's  house.  She  sat  a  little  apart,  listening  and  watch- 
ing, but  the  conversation  ran  all  on  last  night's  ball,  and  the 
guests. 

"  I  wonder  how  they  will  look  if  I  talk  of  Mr.  Smith  ?  " 
thought  Sybil,  and  without  taking  time  to  hesitate  or  reflect,  she 
suddenly  said, 

"I  missed  Mr.  Smith." 

"  What  Mr.  Smith  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Ronald,  with  sudden  in- 
terest.     "  Not  Mr.  Smith  of  Hartly  Manor?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  manor  he  belongs  to,"  slowly  answered 
Sybil,  already  repenting  what  she  had  done. 

"Death  Manor,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  with  a 
solemn  shake  of  her  head.  "  The  Mr.  Smith  Sybil  means  died 
very  miserably,  I  believe — I  heard  something  of  the  kind  in 
England." 

"  Surely  not  that  poor,  vulgar  man  who  went  about  Saint 
Vincent  dropping  his  h's?"  suggested  Mrs.  Ronald,  speaking  as 
if  Mr.  Smith's  h's  were  things  to  be  picked  up. 


sybil's  second  love.  345 

Mr.  Kennedy  now  spoke  for  the  first  time.  Sybil,  who  sat 
Facing  him,  had  been  struck  with  the  expression  which  his  face 
took,  not  merely  when  she  mentioned  Mr.  Smith's  name,  but 
when  his  wife  uttered  the  rather  ominous  words  of  "  Death 
Manor."  It  was  sudden  and  fierce,  then  a  set  smile  followed, 
and  he  said, 

"  No,  Mrs.  Ronald,  that  Mr.  Smith  is  alive  and  well.  I  had 
a  letter  from  him  this  morning." 

"  I  always  pitied  you,  Mr.  Kennedy,  for  having  any  thing 
to  do  with  that  vulgar  man,"  compassionately  said  Mrs.  Ronald. 

"  He  is  vulgar,"  granted  Mr.  Kennedy ;  "  but  you  see,  Mrs. 
Ronald,  business  is  no  respecter  of  persons." 

He  spoke  gayly,  but  his  eye  was  on  his  wife  all  the  time. 
Mrs.  Kennedy  smiled  till  her  white  teeth  shone  again. 

"  I  never  saw  him,"  she  said,  "  but  Sybil  described  him  in 
such  lively  terms,  that  I  am  sure  I  should  know  him  again.  A 
long,  sallow,  vulgar  man,  with  heavy  black  eyes.  I  was  disap- 
pointed to  think  he  was  dead,  poor  fellow — burned  to  death 
too,  was  not  that  dreadful  ?  I  have  such  a  horror  of  fire,"  she 
added  with  a  shudder. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Mrs.  Roland,  with  another  shudder. 
"  I  saw  poor  Miss  Dory  burned  to  death.  You  remember  my 
telling  you,  Miss  Spencer  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,"  said  Miss  Spencer,  calmly.  She  was  not  hard- 
hearted, but  for  the  last  nine  years  she  had  heard  Miss  Dory 
burned  to  death  over  and  over  again,  and  so  she  had  got  rather 
used  to  it.  Mrs.  Ronald  was  convinced  that  she  knew  how  to 
tell  a  story,  and  she  thought  it  her  duty  to  display  this  accom- 
plishment as  often  as  she  could.  She  now  felt  it  incumbent  on 
herself  to  relate  once  more  Miss  Dory's  lamentable  end.  So 
her  hearers  had  it  all — how  Miss  Dory's  dress  took  fire,  how 
she  ran  round  the  room  with  the  flames  as  high  as  her  head, 
and  how,  of  the  twenty  people  present,  only  one,  namely,  Mrs. 
Ronald,  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  exclaim,  "  Don't  let  her 
out;"  which  judicious  admonition,  not  being  heeded,  led  to 
Miss  Dory's  perdition. 

"For  with  the  fatal  instinct  of  people  on  fire,  she  ran  out 
into  the  garden,  leaped  into  the  pond,  and  was  thence  taken  out 
— extinguished,  indeed,  but  dying." 

This  gloomy  narrative,  which  would  have  sickened  Sybil  at 
another  time,  was  a  relief  to  her  on  this  day.  She  had  felt, 
after  speaking  of  Mr.  Smith,  like  the  pupil  of  the  magician  who 
"   15* 


346  sybil's  second  love. 

called  up  a  spirit  he  nad  not  the  power  to  dismiss  again ;  but 
now  Mr.  Smith  was  forgotten,  and  Miss  Dory's  fate  led  to  a 
dissertation  on  long  skirts,  this  to  another  chapter  on  fashions, 
after  which  Mrs.  Ronald  and  Miss  Spencer  rose  and  took  their 
leave.  Sybil,  who  never  stayed  longer  than  she  could  help  in 
her  step-mother's  presence,  rose,  too,  and  left  the  drawing-room. 
She  went  down-stairs,  and  crossed  the  cloister,  and  saw  Mr. 
Dermot  pacing  one  of  the  galleries  with  slow  steps  and  down- 
cast eyes.  She  could  not  resist  the  impulse  of  going  up  to  him, 
and  tellinof  him  what  she  had  done.  She  felt  sure  that  he 
would  blame  her,  but  she  could  not  help  it.  Mr.  Dermot  heard 
her,  and  sighed. 

"  Poor  little  Sybil,"  he  said,  "  many  more  such  conversa- 
tions will  ruin  me  and  serve  Mrs.  Kennedy.  Why,  child,  that 
is  what  she  wants — that  and  nothing  else." 

"  Ah  !  how  can  you  forgive  me  ? — how  can  you  care  for 
me?  "  she  exclaimed,  in  her  distress. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips,  half  smiling  at 
the  fond  fear  and  needless  confession. 

"More  than  ever — more  than  ever,  Sybil,"  he  said,  very 
kindly. 

Sybil  hung  her  head,  ashamed  of  her  folly.  Did  he  read 
her  thoughts,  that  he  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  as  if  to  make 
sure  that  none  could  hear  him, 

"  Do  not  make  life  too  dear  to  me,  that  is  all ;  the  war  be- 
tween her  and  me  has  begun,  and  God  knows  how  it  will  end. 
God  knows,  Sybil,  if  I  shall  dare  to  wish  for  you  a  week 
hence." 

There  was  a  pathos  in  his  voice — a  longing  and  regret, 
which  Sybil  could  not  mistake.  Oh  !  she  was  dear  to  him — 
very  dear  to  him,  if  there  was  truth  in  man's  looks  or  language. 

"  And  I  .cannot  help  it — I  can  do  nothing,"  she  said,  dis- 
tressed at  his  dejected  mien. 

"  No,  nothing,  Sybil — nothing  but  to  be  silent.  I  expect  a 
letter,  which  will  either  condemn  or  reprieve  me — for  awhile,  at 
least.     Till  it  comes,  let  us  forget." 

Jfe  spoke  cheerfully,  and  his  face  remained  serene,  spite 
Sybil's  wistful  eyes. 

The  morning  is  fine,  and  the  cloister  is  pleasant,"  he  pur- 
sued ;  "  let  us  enjoy  both  whilst  we  may,  Sybil — life  is  brief, 
and  its  sweetness  rarely  comes  back.  Let  us  take  the  good  out 
of  the  present  time,  so  have  said  the  wise  of  all  ages.  Let  us, 
too,  be  wise  in  our  generation." 


SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOVE. 


341 


It  seemed  to  Sybil  as  if  she  could  not  say  him  nay.  She 
forgot  that  she  was  to  be  fascinating  and  handsome — she  only 
felt  that  she  must  yield,  and  do  his  pleasure.  So  they  paced 
the  cloister  up  and  down,  and  thence  passed  into  the  garden, 
and  spoke,  not  of  love,  nor  of  Mr.  Dermot's  troubles,  nor  of  the 
future,  but  of  the  morning  and  its  beauty,  of  life  and  its  expe- 
riences, dark  or  fair  ;  and  throughout  all,  Mr.  Dermot  said,  there 
ran,  like  a  subtle  burden,  his  unspoken  love  for  Sybil.  She  said 
little ;  her  heart  was  full.  She  could  not  forget  that  there  hung 
a  dark  cloud  over  his  life,  and  now  that  she  partly  guessed  its 
meaning,  it  seemed  far  darker  than  before.  A  weight  of  sorrow 
was  on  her,  and  therewithal  a  sense  of  troubled  happiness, 
stronger  than  that  shadow  of  death.  Often  as  he  spoke  she 
looked  at  him,  and  longed  to  say : 

"  Oh !  since  you  love  me  at  last,  take  me  truly  to  your 
heart ;  tell  me  your  cares,  and  let  me  share  them.  Let  not 
mine  be  mere  summer-love." 

But  humility  as  well  as  pride  kept  her  silent.  If  this  for- 
bade her  to  solicit  ungiven  confidence,  that  said  no  less  plainly 
she  did  not  deserve  it.  She  was  too  childish,  too  weak  to  be 
trusted  by  him.  He  could  love  her  and  be  very  kind  to  her, 
but  she  must  always  be  as  a  tender  little  child  in  his  sight. 
"  Be  it  so,"  thought  Sybil,  "  be  it  so." 

Something  of  that  secret  submission  Mr.  Dermot  felt,  not 
all,  but  enough  ;  for  as  they  returned  to  the  house  together,  he 
stopped,  to  say  very  earnestly, 

"Sybil,  you  are  one  of  the  most  unselfish,  self-denying 
beings  I  ever  knew.  You  ever  forget  yourself  in  others — it 
does  me  good  to  be  near  you." 

Sybil  blushed  and  trembled.  There  was  something  more 
than  the  admiration  of  beauty  in  his  look.  If  she  was  a  child, 
indeed,  in  his  sight,  she  was  so  too  in  the  reverence  which  we 
yield  to  childhood  and  innocence. 

"  Oh  !  if  God  will  be  but  merciful  to  us,  and  let  that  trouble 
pass  away,  I  shall  be  too  happy,"  she  thought,  in  the  fulness  of 
her  heart,  as  they  entered  the  house  together.  And  she  did 
not  see  what  Mr.  Dermot  saw,  that  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  looking 
at  them  from  her  window,  with  a  sullen  smile  on  her  face. 

"Let  her,"  he  thought  in  secret  scorn,"  all  is  not  over  be- 
tween us  yet." 

But  do  what  he  would,  this  was  not  the  triumphant  defiance 
of  the  morning. 


348  sybil's  second  love. 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

Blanche  did  not  look  on  alone.  Her  husband  stood  be- 
hind her  all  the  time,  watching  her  as  she  watched  the  pair  be- 
low. She  knew  he  was  there,  and  turned  round  with  the  sullen 
smile  still  on  her  face. 

"They  do  not  look  very  happy,"  she  said;  "Mr.  Dermot 
seems  no  very  ardent  lover." 

"  I  wonder  wThy  he  was  kissing  Sybil's  hand  in  the  cloister 
awhile  ago  ?  "  rejoined  Mr.  Kennedy. 

A  flash  passed  through  Mrs.  Kennedy's  blue  eyes. 

"  Oh  !  Sybil  has  a  very  pretty  hand,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
dare  say  Mr.  Dermot  admires  it ;  but  I  wonder  she  let  him — she 
used  to  be  a  shy  little  lady." 

"I  dare  say  she  likes  it,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  smiling.  "  She 
chose  to  be  offended  with  me  because  I  took  the  liberty  of  marry- 
ing you,  my  love — and  I  suppose  she  is  seeking  for  consolation." 

He  looked  at  his  wife,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  but  she 
did  not  heed  the  look.  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  a  bold  and  unscru- 
pulous woman,  but  penetration  was  not  her  gift.  She  could 
hunt  out  a  secret ;  but  in  character  she  had  less  skill.  She  had 
mistaken  both  Sybil  and  Mr.  Derruot  in  the  past,  and  she  now 
mistook  her  husband.  Mr.  Kennedy  was  essentially  a  secretive 
man.  He  could  do  a  foolish  thing,  and  marry  too  young  a 
woman  ;  he  could  squander  his  fortune  to  gratify  her  caprices  ; 
lie  could  even  so  far  succumb  to  her  influence  as  to  look  on  his 
child  with  changed  eyes,  but  he  could  not  give  her  his  confi- 
dence. Because  he  had  once  revealed  to  her  his  intentions, 
she  thought  that  she  held  the  key  to  his  heart,  and  reposed 
upon  that  thought  with  dangerous  security. 

"  You  still  wish  for  the  match  ?  "  she  said,  smiling  in  her 
turn. 

"  I  never  change  my  mind,  my  love." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Dermot  is  not  a  favorite  of  mine,  nor  am  I  a 
favorite  of  lii<,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Kennedy  after  awhile  ;  "but  for 
all  that  he  will  do  very  well  for  Sybil,  if  she  will  have  him." 

Mr.  Kennedy  laughed  and  nodded. 

"  Not  much  fear  of  her  saying  him  nay — a  fine,  handsome 
fellow  ! " 

Mrs.  Kennedy  could  not  be  silent. 

"  Handsome  !  with  red  hair  and  green  eyes !  "  she  said, 
scorn ful \y ;  "our  ideas  of  beauty  differ,  Mr.  Kennedy." 


sybil's  second  love.  349 

"  Sybil  admires  his  Lair  and  his  eyes,"  calmly  replied  Mr. 
Kennedy. 

"  Well,  well,  there  is  no  accounting  for  tastes,"  remarked 
his  wife,  relapsing  into  sudden  and  suspicious  good-humor ; 
"  only  never  expect  me  to  be  very  gracious  to  him,  that's  all." 

Gracious  to  him  !  Mr.  Kennedy  resolved  she  should  never 
have  the  chance.  The  match  which — to  her — he  seemed  to 
desire  was  the  very  last  thing  he  now  wished  for.  For  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy was  jealous.  He  did  not  know  it,  he  did  not  say  so  to 
his  own  thoughts,  but  there  are  subtle  recesses  of  the  brain  in 
which  strange  suspicions,  doubts,  and  misgivings  seethe  and 
simmer,  unsuspected  and  unknown,  till  some  fearful  explosion 
reveals  their  existence.  In  some  such  hidden  reoion  now  brooded 
James  Kennedy's  jealousy,  latent  but  very  real,  and  not  wholly 
groundless.  In  those  days  when  he  looked  at  Blanche  Cains  as 
a  dispassionate  observer,  he  had  detected  one  or  two  looks  pass- 
ing between  her  and  Mr.  Dermot,  which  had  excited  a  vague 
suspicion.  Every  subsequent  event  seeming  to  disprove  this, 
he  had  forgotten  it,  and  even  now  he  would  not  acknowledge 
to  himself  that  he  remembered  it,  but  he  did.  That  recollec- 
tion made  him  doubt  the  wisdom  of  giving  his  daughter  to  his 
friend,  although  that  friend  now  seemed  much  inclined  to  take 
her.  Suppose  the  old  liking  for  his  wife  should  revive  ? — such 
things  have  been — would  it  be  very  pleasant  to  have  the  man 
he  dreaded  within  his  domestic  circle,  even  though  it  should  be 
as  his  daughter's  husband  ?  Young  wives  had  been  forgotten 
ere  this  for  beautiful  step-mothers  ;  but  wise  men  knew  how  to 
exclude  such  chances  of  peril  from  their  home,  and  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy, who  thought  himself  wise,  was  ready  to  sacrifice  Sybil 
and  Mr.  Dermot  ten  times  over  rather  than  run  such  risk.  So 
he  spoke  plausibly  to  his  wife,  and  heard  her  little  half-sweet, 
hall-acid  comments  on  Mr.  Dermot's  sudden  devotion  to  Sybil ; 
and,  drawing  some  bitter  conclusions  the  while,  he  resolved  to 
divide  his  rival  forever  from  his  wife,  and  to  begin  this  task  by 
separating  him  from  his  daughter. 

If  he  had  told  Blanche  as  much  it  might  have  been  well  for 
them  both,  but  Mr.  Kennedy  could  open  his  mind  to  none — 
least  of  all  to  one  whom  he  suspected.  Moreover,  he  could  not 
forget  the  significant  remarks  she  had  made  about  Mr.  Smith. 
Mistrust  of  her  had  entered  his  heart  as  she  spoke,  and  was  to 
leave  it  no  more. 

"  Marry  Sybil ! "  thought  Mrs.  Kennedy,  as  her  husband 
went  down-stairs,  "never — let  him  if  he  dare  !" 


350  sybil's  secoxd  love. 

"  I  am  afraid  rny  love-story  is  turning  to  a  drama,  and  wil. 
slip  through  my  fingers,"  thought  Mrs.  Mush,  the  second  day 
after  the  ball. 

For  the  last  ten  years  this  lady  having  been  excluded  from 
active  life  by  the  death  of  her  husband,  who  had  worried  her 
and  given  her  enough  to  think  of  during  his  lifetime,  had  be- 
come what  she  called  a  looker-on.  She  had  considerable  expe- 
rience in  the  line,  and  knew  to  a  tittle  when  matters  went  right 
or  wrong.  The  first  breath  of  discord  was  to  her  like  a  false 
note  in  music  to  a  refined  ear;  and  many  such  false  notes  she 
now  detected.  Sybil  looked  sad,  and  Mr.  Dermot  very  grave, 
but  they  had  not  quarrelled,  Mrs.  Mush  could  see  that.  Mrs. 
Kennedy  seemed  the  very  picture  of  happiness,  but  she  never 
lost  sight  of  her  step-daughter,  Mrs.  Mush  saw  that  too ;  but 
best  of  all,  she  saw  that  Mr.  Kennedy  watched  his  wife  inces- 
santly. 

"There  will  come  the  hitch,"  she  thought;  upoor  things, 
they  do  not  see  it." 

They  saw  nothing  indeed,  for  generous  natures  are  often 
blind  to  their  own  cost.  Something  Mr.  Dermot  perceived, 
but  not  much,  and  Sybil  thought  but  of  him  and  forgot  all  else. 
These  two  were  not  often  together,  but  no  one  who  saw  them  in 
the  same  room  could  mistake  their  feelings ;  and  Blanche  Cains 
had  to  look  on  and  feel  powerless.  Her  husband  had  been  too 
much  for  her  she  felt,  though  she  did  not  know  how  far  this 
was  true.  She  did  all  she  could  to  avert  the  event  she  dreaded. 
She  was  tender,  she  was  fond,  she  laughed  at  Mr.  Dermot's  red 
hair  and  green  eyes,  and  Mr.  Kennedy  took  her  fondness  as  his 
due,  and  let  her  believe  whatever  she  pleased.  He  had  a  mind 
tenacious  of  mistrust,  and  his  once  awakened  was  to  sleep  no 
more.  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  not  jealous,  for  she  had  never  loved ; 
but  that  Sybil  and  her  old  lover  should  wed  and  scorn  her,  as 
they  must  both  for  her  folly  and  her  perfidy,  she  could  not  en- 
dure. That  they  should  wed  and  live  in  Saint  Vincent,  and 
thereby  banish  her  from  that  narrow  world  where  she  was  al- 
ready queen  regnant,  was  something  worse  even  than  their 
love  and  their  scorn;  for  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  a  matter-of-fact 
woman  even  in  her  hatred. 

And  yet  to  that  double  end  they  seemed  to  be  tending.  It 
was  impossible  not  to  perceive  that  Mr.  Dermot  was  much  enam- 
ored. He  knew  himself  beloved,  and  that  certainty  had  lured 
hi  in   on  further  than   doubt   or  desire.     He   never  remembered 


syeil's  second  love.  351 

Sybil's  pale  face  and  cold  hand  without  a  secret  thrill  of  happi- 
ness. Surely  he  had  at  last  found  rest,  and  that  fond  young 
heart,  so  ready  to  receive  him,  was  a  sweet  and  calm  refuge 
from  the  stormy  cares  of  life.  There  had  ever  been  doubt  and 
secret  discontent  in  his  love  for  Blanche  Cains,  but  this  was  all 
security  and  repose.  Ah  !  if  Fate  would  but  be  kind,  what 
happy  days  he  could  yet  snatch  and  enjoy  in  that  old  abbey 
with  Sybil  Kennedy ! 

Sybil  was  a  book  no  less  easy  to  read.  She  had  the  happy 
gift  of  the  young  to  forget  sorrow  quickly,  and  look  at  the  sunny 
side  of  life.  Mr.  Dermot  spoke  no  more  of  his  trouble,  and 
Sybil  began  to  think  it  must  have  gone  by,  and  that  happiness 
and  joy  were  in  store  for  her  after  all.  The  light  returned  to 
her  eyes,  the  bloom  to  her  cheek,  and  the  ready  smile  to  her 
lips.  He  never  spoke  of  love,  for  they  never  met  a  second 
alone  ;  but  she  could  read  his  face,  and  its  meaning  sank  in  her 
heart,  and  abided  there  a  joyful  guest.  Seven  days  had  thus 
gone  by,  when  he  met  her  one  morning  on  the  staircase.  He 
stopped  her  at  once,  and  pointing  to  an  open  letter  in  his  hand, 
he  said  with  a  mocking,  triumphant  smile, 

"  The  first  act  of  the  play,  or  the  first  canto  of  the  epic  is 
over,  Sybil,  and  Duessa  is  at  bay.  I  dare  not  say  that  the  false 
witch  is  conqiiered  ;  but  we  can  bid  her  defiance  for  a  while." 

He  took  her  hand  again,  and  again  it  trembled  within  his  ; 
but  Mrs.  Kennedy's  door  opened  above.  Mr.  Dermot  dropped 
Sybil's  hand  with  an  impatient  frown,  and  merely  said, 

"  I  am  going  out  for  the  dav.  Do  you  want  any  thing  from 
Saint  Vincent?'" 

"  A  world  of  things,"  gayly  replied  Sybil.  "  Books,  seeds, 
birds — shall  I  make  out  a  list  ?  " 

"  Pray  do." 

She  took  out  her  pocket-book,  and  leaning  on  the  banister 
of  the  staircase,  she  wrote  a  list  of  imaginary  requirements, 
which  she  handed  him  gravely.  He  knew  that  Mrs.  Kennedy 
was  watching  them  from  above,  for  he  even  heard  the  rustle  of 
her  dress;  but  he  did  not  care.  His  heart  swam  in  happiness 
and  love.  It  wras  going  back  to  youth  to  look  at  Sybil's  radi- 
ant face,  and  read  to  the  meaning  of  her  soft  dark  cy<s. 

"I  shall  be  home  early,"  he  said,  taking  the  list  from  her 
hand ;  and  Sybil  guessed  which  way  he  would  come,  and  that 
he  hoped  to  find  her  on  his  path.  But  though  she  longed  to 
go  and  meet  him,  she  resolved   that  she  would   not.     No,  she 


352  SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOVE. 

must  not,  it  would  not  be  right,  and  if  lie  bad  any  tbing  to 
say  he  must  find  or  make  bis  opportunity. 

"A  pleasant  journey  to  you,  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said,  saucily, 
"  and  pray,  do  not  forget  my  list.  I  shall  die  of  grief  if  you 
leave  out  one  of  the  items." 

She  nodded,  and  went  on,  and  be  looted  after  her,  while 
Mrs.  Kennedy  stood  and  looked  above. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII. 

"At  last !  at  last !  "  was  the  joyful  cry  whieh  rang  through 
Sybil's  heart  that  day.  Happy  Sybil !  How  many  are  there  to 
whom  that  "at  last"  never  comes!  "Who  pine  for  it  from 
youth  upward,  and  look  back  toward  it  in  age  with  fond  regret. 
But  you  were  not  of  these.  Your  "  at  last "  was  true,  and  made 
you  restless  with  happiness  the  whole  of  that  long  day. 

As  the  hour  of  his  return  drew  nigh,  Sybil  longed  to  go  and 
meet  him,  but  dared  not.  She  knew  he  would  come  through 
the  garden,  and  as  there  was  no  fear  in  her  love,  it  would  have 
been  veiy  pleasant  to  go  and  greet  him,  but  she  dared  not.  It 
would  not  be  maidenly,  it  would  not  be  right. 

"I  must  stay  within,"  thought  Sybil,  with  a  reluctant  sigh. 
"  Ah  !  why  can  one  not  act  as  one  feels  ?  And  where  would 
be  the  harm  ?  " 

Sybil  was  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  bouse  as  she 
thought  thus.  She  was  standing  like  a  young  bird  by  the  open 
door~of  its  cage,  wondering  whether  or  not  to  take  its  flight  in 
the  world  without.  A  hand  laid  on  her  shoulder  made  her  turn 
round  with  a  little  start.  She  looked  and  saw  her  father.  Did 
Mr.  Kennedy  know  why  bis  daughter  was  thus  looking  at  the 
garden  with  shy,  wistful  eyes  ?  "Whether  he  knew  it  or  not,  it 
did  not  change  his  purpose. 

"  Sybil,  your  aunt  Glyn  has  asked  me  to  let  you  spend  some 
time  with  her,  and  I  have  promised  to  do  so." 

A  look  of  troubled  surprise  passed  through  Sybil's  eyes, 
then  she  said, 

"When  am  I  to  go?" 

"  This  afternoon— now.     Go  in  and  get  ready." 

She  could  scarcely  believe  in  so  hard  a  sentence. 


sybil's  second  love.  353 

"  Oh  papa,  are  you  tired  of  me  ? "  she  exclaimed,  sadly. 

"  Tired  of  you,  Pussy  !  No.  Why,  I  shall  go  over  every 
day  to  see  you.     Make  haste  to  get  ready." 

She  could  not  resist.  She  must  obey.  So  she  went  in  and 
sorrowfully  prepared  for  a  visit  of  some  duration.  She  lingered 
in  the  hope  of  gaining  time,  but  it  did  not  avail  her.  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy came  himself  to  her  door  to  hurry  her,  and  Sybil  was  com- 
pelled to  confess  herself  ready. 

As  they  left  the  house  Sybil  started.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  heard  Mr.  Dermot's  voice  in  the  cloister.  She  looked 
at  Mr.  Kennedy.      His  face  remained  unmoved. 

"  Was  not  that  Mr.  Dermot  ?  "  she  asked.  "  He  was  to 
bring  me  home  ever  so  many  things  from  Saint  Vincent. 

"  No,"  he  replied  calmly,  "  it  is  the  foreman." 

Sybil  did  not  care  to  contradict  him  ;  but  as  she  entered  the 
carriage,  she  saw  Mr.  Dertnot  standing  at  the  gate  and  looking 
after  her  with  grave,  reproachful  eyes. 

"  Surely  that  was  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  could  not  help  sa}'ing. 

But  Mr.  'Kennedy  was  both  deaf  and  blind.  He  saw,  he 
heard  nothing,  and  drove  off  in  that  condition. 

"  That  is  her  doing,"  thought  Sybil,  with  an  aching  heart  ; 
"  and  he  will  think  I  am  going  away  on  purpose  to  shun  him." 

"  She  looked  behind  her,  hoping  to  catch  another  glimpse 
of  him,  but  Mr.  Dermot  had  vanished.  She  looked  at  her 
father,  and  gave  him  an  appealing  glance,  but  Mr.  Kennedy 
only  saw  the  landscape. 

"  It  is  her  doing !  "  thought  Sybil  again. 

Her  doing  it  was,  in  so  far  that  she  had  ventured  to  sug- 
gest this  visit  to  Miss  Glvn.  But  however  strong  miodit  be  her 
wish  to  divide  her  former  friend  from  her  former  lover,  it  was 
not  so  strong  as  Mr.  Kennedy's  ;  and  Sybil  felt  it  with  a 
sad  and  vague  intuition,  for  which  she  could  have  given  no  rea- 
son. 

The  journey  was  brief,  and  within  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
Sybil  had  been  handed  over  to  Miss  Glyn,  and  left  in  that  lady's 
care  by  Mr.  Kennedy. 

"  I  shall  come  now  and  then  and  see  you,  Pussy,"  said  her 
father,  kissing  her  as  they  parted.  But  Sybil  knew  he  would 
not  come.  She  was  exiled  and  punished  for  his  sin  and  that  of 
Blanche  Cains. 

At  any  time  Sybil  would  have  felt  it  a  hardship  to  be  left 
alone  with  Miss  Glyn.     She  liked  her  aunt,  but  not  her  aunt's 


354  sybil's  second  love. 

exclusive  society.  Now  to  this  hardship,  which  included  sc 
much  sorrow,  was  added  a  peculiar  infliction.  Miss  Glyn  con- 
sidered it  a  great  blessing  for  Sybil  to  be  out  of  Saint  Vincent 
and  with  her,  and  she  said  so. 

"  It  could  do  you  no  good,  child,  to  be  in  that  house,"  she 
said,  calmly.  "  Your  father  never  minded  you  much,  however 
he  might  pet  and  spoil  you  ;  Mrs.  Mush  is,  in  n^  opinion,  inca- 
pable of  the  task,  and  I  need  say  nothing  of  Mrs.  Kennedy." 

The  upshot  of  these  remarks  was  that  Miss  Glyn  was  the 
only  person  who  could  miud  Sybil.  "Being  minded"  is  one 
of  the  wrongs  of  youth,  for  youth  is  convinced  that  it  can  mind 
and  take  care  of  itself.  Moreover,  Sybil  did  not  hold  Miss 
Glyn's  judgment  as  a  diamond  of  the  first  water.  She  had 
sense  enough  to  see  that  Miss  Glyn  had  done  a  very  foolish 
thing  in  setting  up  in  business,  and  why  should  she  trust  her 
guidance  to  one  who  could  not  manage  her  own  concerns  ? 
Luckily,  however,  for  the  domestic  peace  of  these  two  ladies, 
Miss  Glyn's  "minding"  was  more  in  words  than  in  deeds. 
Sybil  did  pretty  much  as  she  pleased  in  her  new  home,  and  that 
it  was  to  be  her  home  she  soon  received  proof,  for  before  the 
first  work  of  her  sojourn  was  out,  her  father  sent  her  down  her 
piano.  Miss  Glyn,  who  was  very  fond  of  her  niece,  saw  the  ar- 
rival of  this  instrument  with  considerable  satisfaction,  and  sur- 
veyed its  entrance  into  her  counting-house  parlor  with  consider- 
able interest.  Not  so  Sybil ;  she  could  have  cried  with  mingled 
grief  and  vexation,  and  scarcely  restrained  her  tears. 

Ah  !  when  should  she  see  him  now  ?  Miss  Glyn  would  keep 
her,  and  her  father  would  leave  her,  and  Mr.  Dermot  would  not 
come  to  her  aunt's  house.  It  was  her  step-mother's  doing.  Yes, 
she  felt  it  with  secret  though  deep  bitterness,  that  her  false  friend 
was  false  to  the  last. 

"  She  knows  I  like  him,"  thought  Sybil;  "  for  was  there  a 
thought,  a  motion  of  my  heart,  I  concealed  from  her ;  and  so 
she  robs  me  of  my  only  chance,  and  what  is  it  to  her  now  ? 
She  gave  him  up  long  ago,  and  she  married  my  father.  She 
cannot  be  his  wife  and  love  Mr.  Dermot.  Then  why  make  me 
miserable  ?  She  ought  to  see  that  he  is  not  so  very  fond  of  me 
after  all;  that  he  was  only  beginning  to  like  me  a  little,  a  very 
little,  just  because  he  wants  to  marry,  I  suppose,  and  that  I  was 
the  only  girl  at  hand  ! " 

These  were  bitter  thoughts,  and  they  added  to  the  weari- 
ness of  this  dreary  day.     Towards  evening  it  began  to  rain,  and 


SYBIL'S    SECOND   LOVE.  355 

Miss  Glyn  prosed  dreadfully.  Sybil,  unable  to  bear  more,  went 
up  to  her  room.  She  stood  by  her  window,  and  leaning  her 
forehead  on  the  panes,  she  looked  out  on  the  dreary  prospect. 
In  a  happier  mood  Sybil  would  have  found  beauty  in  this  wild 
landscape,  but  now  she  only  felt  that  it  was  savage  and  melan- 
choly in  the  extreme.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but  heavy  clouds 
chased  each  other  across  a  stormy  sky.  Stunted  trees  of  a  deep 
and  gloomy  green  bent  before  the  strong  wind,  and  broke  on  the 
dull  line  of  a  low  horizon.  A  lurid  gleam  of  sun  shot  athwart 
the  sullen-looking  river,  and  a  broken  foreground  of  white  chalky 
rock  and  soil.  Away  swept  the  eddying  waters  beyond  Sybil's 
view,  through  a  barren  and  desert-looking  plain.  Not  a  human 
figure,  shepherd  or  sportsman,  not  a  cottage  or  thatched  hut, 
with  its  thin  wreath  of  smoke,  broke  on  the  desolation  of  this 
wide  moor.  Far  away  she  saw  a  few  white  specks,  and  she 
knew  what  they  were — the  Druidical  remains  of  the  old  heathen 
worship,  the  mysterious  signs  and  tokens  of  the  dead  Celtic 
faith  ;  and  the  knowledge  that  they  were  there,  only  made  soli- 
tude more  impressive.  Sybil  thought  of  the  abbey  and  its  old 
garden,  and  the  library  in  the  old  happy  days  of  Uncle  Edward, 
and  her  heart  yearned  toward  her  old  home  and  its  lost  joys. 
What  had  she  done,  that  she  should  be  banished  ? — and  how 
long  must  her  exile  last  ? — for  exile  it  was,  though  Miss  Glyn 
knew  it  not.  If  that  lady  had  known,  iudeed,  how  convenient 
a  tool  she  was  in  Mrs.  Kennedy's  hands,  we  may  well  doubt  how 
far  she  would  have  been  anxious  to  secure  the  company  of  her 
niece. 

"  And  now  I  must  go  down  to  tea,"  thought  Sybil  drearily, 
"and  hear  long  stories  of  commercial  interest.  Oh,  dear  ! — oh, 
dear !  how  dreadful  it  will  be  ! " 

As  Sybil  was  wandering  if  her  head  did  not  ache,  and  she 
could  not  stay  in  her  room,  the  sound  of  a  voice  below  made 
her  heart  give  a  great  throb  in  her  bosom.  Surely  it  was 
impossible.  It  was  not  Mr.  Dermot  talking  to  her  aunt.  And 
yet  who  had  a  voice  like  his,  both  sweet  and  strong  \  Trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot  with  doubt  and  excitement,  Sybil  went 
down-stairs,  calling  up  as  composed  a  cast  of  countenance  as  she 
could  command  on  such  short  notice. 

Yes,  it  was  Mr.  Dermot.  lie  sat  talking  to  Miss  Glyn,  and 
talking,  if  not  with  friendliness,  at  least  with  perfect  equanimity 
on  both  sides.  He  bowed  and  smiled  to  Sybil,  but  without  in- 
terrupting his  discourse. 


356  sybil's  second  loye. 

"  You  see,  Miss  Glyn,"  he  said,  "  tlieir  plan  is  this — to  secu'-a 
as  many  samples  as  they  can,  and  then  stop  payment." 

"  But  how  villanous  ! "  cried  Miss  Glyn,  whose  phraseology 
when  excited  was  strong. 

"  It  is  not  honest,  to  be  sure." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do  about  my  butter?"  indignantly  asked 
Miss  Glyn;  "I  cannot  sacrifice  I  know  not  how  many  casks, 
can  I?" 

"It  is  an  awkward  case,"  gravely  said  Mr.  Dermot,  slowly 
stroking  his  chin  as  he  spoke  "Will  you  let  me  see  the 
papers  ? " 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  eagerly  replied  Miss  Glyn ;  "they 
are  up-stairs.  Sybil,  do  go  for  them — but,  nOj  you  would  not 
know  where  to  find  them.     I  shall  go  myself." 

She  rose  and  left  them.  Sybil  felt  blushing  with  guilty  joy 
and  confusion.  It  was  not  merely  his  presence  that  gladdened 
her  very  heart — it  was  the  certain  knowledge  that  Mr.  Dermot, 
her  friend,  would  never  have  come  unbidden  to  her  aunt's 
house — no,  it  was  Mr.  Dermot,  her  lover,  who  had  come,  and 
come  to  see  her !  Her  chair  was  near  the  window,  and  Sybil 
could  look  out  without  affectation.  The  moon  had  risen,  and 
now  lit  the  landscape,  which  half  an  hour  before  had  seemed  so 
dreary.  Oh  !  how  it  was  altered !  Was  it  that  pale  silvery 
light  which  shone  in  patches  across  the  dark  plain,  and  shivered 
in  the  flowing  river,  was  it  that  which  gave  the  scene  such  en- 
chantment in  Sybil's  eyes  ?  Fairy  legends  were  never  half  so 
fair  and  sweet  as  the  vision  with  which  her  fancy  peopled  the 
scene.  Undine,  Titania,  Oberon,  were  cold  and  dull  to  the  joy- 
ous dreams  of  the  ardent  girl. 

"  Well,  Sybil,"  said  Mr.  Dermot,  after  watching  her  for  a 
while,  "  have  you  got  nothing  to  say  to  me  ? " 

He  went  to  her,  and  held  out  his  hand.  Sybil  gave  him 
hers,  and  turning  round,  beheld  another  scene — the  cool  moon- 
light stole  upon  the  floor,  but  the  bright  lamp  lit  the  whole 
room,  and  its  light  fell  on  Mr.  Dcrmot's  genial  and  smiling  face, 
and  Sybil  felt  warmth  and  brightness  around  her. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she  half  stammered.  "  I  did 
not  expect  it." 

"  We  may  thank  Mrs.  Kennedy  for  this  move,"  said  Mr. 
Dermot,  drawing  his  chair  near  hers.  "Well,  Sybil,  she  gave 
me  a  week's  work,  and  hard  work  too.  I  had  to  get  deep  into 
Miss  Glyn's  business,  and  luckily  for  me  that  business  is  rather 


Sybil's  second  love.  357 

in  a  sad  condition.  But  I  stormed  the  fairy  castle  after  all,  and 
circumvented  Mrs.  Kennedy,  did  I  not,  Sybil  ? " 

His  keen  gray  eyes  sparkled  "with  such  mischievous  light, 
and  such  triumphant  meaning,  that  Sybil  felt  half  frightened. 
She  began  to  feel  very  shy  of  her  quondam  friend,  and  as  she 
felt  she  looked.  That  maiden  coyness  is  flattering  to  most  men. 
It  is  an  acknowledgment  of  supremacy,  which  delights  self-love  ; 
and  it  is  a  mute  appeal  for  mercy,  which  a  generous  heart  never 
denies.  Mr.  Dermot's  eyes  rested  with  delight  on  Sybil's  blush- 
ing face  and  half-downcast  eyes,  for  he  could  read  their  language ; 
but  he  forbore  making  any  further  allusion  to  the  motive  which 
had  brought  him. 

"The  abbey  is  very  dull  without  you,"  he  said;  "I  now 
find  that  you  must  have  made  a  great  deal  of  noise — the  place 
is  so  silent.  Even  Narcisse  has  noticed  it,  and  complains  of  the 
quietness.  Mademoiselle,  he  says,  was  like  a  butterfly,  every- 
where, and  then  she  sang  so  merrily — and  now  it  is  all  so  tran- 
quil." 

"Then  I  am  "better  out  of  the  house,"  demurely  said  Sybil ; 
"besides,"  she  added,  with  a  flash  in  her  dark  eye,  "Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy has  a  fine  voice  and  will  sing — she  bikes  duets." 

Mr.  Derrnot  blushed. 

"You  remember  that  time,"  he  said,  deprecatingly ;  "and 
so  do  I.  How  often  as  we  sang-  I  watched  a  little  admiring  figr- 
ure  sitting  apart,  and  so  generously  proud  of  her  friend  that  it 
did  one's  heart  good  to  see  her  beaming,  happy  face.  Well, 
what  ails  you?"  he  added,  seeing  with  concern  that  tears  stood 
in  Sybil's  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  said  vehemently  ;  "  oh  !  how  I  loved 
her!  how  I  believed  in  her! — what  a  great,  what  a  noble  crea- 
ture she  was  to  me — and  now  it  is  gone — all  gone — and  the 
thought  of  that  time  is  sickening  aud  loathsome.  She  was,  as 
you  say,  a  Duessa — false  and  fair." 

"  And  who  was  Una,  Sybil  ?  Who  was  the  Redcross  Knight 
that  forsook  Innocence  and  Truth,  and  was  led  away  bv  False- 
hood?' 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  demurely  replied  Sybil ;  "  to  be 
candid,  vou  do  not  look  like  him  a  bit." 

"  Don't  I,  Sybil  ?  Well,  who  said  I  did  ?  I  do  not  speak 
of  the  look  of  things,  but  of  their  reality.  Tales  of  knight-er- 
rantry, and  magic,  and  enchantment,  and  romance  come  true 
every  day,  whatever  you  may  think.     Our  ancestors  wore  mail 


358  sybil's  second  love. 

and  helmet,  and  we  wear  bats  and  coats  ;  but  we  have  tbe  same 
passions  which  they  bad,  and  wage  the  same  wars  with  them. 
Human  nature  is  changeless  through  all  the  accidents  of  Time ; 
and  to  come  back  to  my  argument,  Duessa  and  Una,  and  tbe 
Bedcross  Knight  too,  are  just  as  true  as  Blanche  Cains,  and 
Sybil  Kennedy,  and  Edward  Dermot." 

Mr.  Dermot  spoke  thus  very  plainly,  without  hesitation  or 
pause  ;  and  Sybil,  who  beard  his  voice,  did  not  dare  to  look  at 
his  face.  She  wondered  if  he  meant  all  he  said,  or  at  least  if  he 
meant  it  as  she  understood  it.  Was  she  indeed  heavenly  Una 
for  him,  the  slighted  mistress  of  a  brave,  though  deceived  heart  ? 
Was  it  in  truth  and  reality  that  he  sought  her  now,  or  was  she 
not  to  set  too  high  and  deep  a  value  on  this  figure  of  speech  ? 
He  seemed  to  read  her  thoughts,  though  her  face  was  bent  and 
her  eyes  were  fastened  on  her  hands  clasped  on  her  lap. 

"  I  mean  every  word  t  say,  Sybil,"  he  said,  impressively. 

Her  heart  was  stirred,  and,  spite  of  herself,  she  could  not 
help  answering  him : 

"  I  believe  you — I  believe  you." 

"  There  they  are,"  said  Miss  Glyn,  coming  in  with  her  arms 
heaped  with  papers  ;  "but  I  think  we  bad  better  bave  tea  first." 

Mr.  Dermot  thought  so  too.  Miss  Glyn  bade  Sybil  make 
the  tea,  and  he  helped  to  sort  and  prepare  the  papers;  but  be 
watched  her  all  the  time.  He  liked  her  easy  and  graceful  mo- 
tions, be  liked  too  her  happy  young  face.  It  had  got  thin  in- 
deed ;  but  the  rosy  flush  that  was  on  it  now  gave  promise  of 
returning  health  and  beauty.  He  felt  sure  of  her,  and  that  se- 
curity was  very  sweet.  Calm,  pure,  and  free  from  all  fever,  was 
this  new  love  to  both.  After  tea  Sybil  was  left  to  herself,  for 
Mr.  Dermot's  errand  was  not  a  fictitious  one,  and  he  was  deep 
with  Miss  Glyn  in  calculations  and  figures.  But  Sybil  did  not 
feel  dull — not  for  a  second.  She  sat  by  tbe  window  and  saw 
the  two  pictures — the  moonlit  country — a  very  Eden  now ;  the 
bright  warm  room  cheerfulness  itself,  spite  its  ledgers. 

"  Oh !  I  could  be  forever  happy  so,"  thought  Sybil :  "  for- 


ever." 


And  so  you  could,  Sybil,  if  the  first  glow  and  exquisite  fer- 


vor of  such  feelings  were  a  thing  of  "  forever.'" 


sybil's  second  love.  359 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

There  was  a  little  summer-house  in  MissGlyn's  garden,  and 
there  Sybil  sat  the  next  morning  with  her  work  upon  her  lap. 

The  spot  was  pleasant,  the  hour  was  delightful.  In  the 
green  boughs  of  a  tall  tree  near  her  a  blackbird  perched  and 
began  to  sing.  As  she  heard  him,  Sybil  remembered  the  old 
Irish  legend  of  the  pious  maiden  who  went  out  to  pray  in  her 
father's  orchard  on  a  summer  morning.  She  too  heard  the 
blackbird  singing.  Three  times  he  sang  so  sweetly  that  mortal 
had  never  heard  any  thing  like  it,  and  with  every  song  a  hun- 
dred years  flew  by,  and  when  he  ceased,  and  the  maiden  went 
back  to  her  father's  house,  she  found  a  village,  and  strange  peo- 
ple, and  a  new  world,  that  recognized  her  not.  She  told  her 
story,  and  old  men  remembered  an  ancient  tradition  of  their 
youth  which  confirmed  it.  And  yet  how  could  it  be  ?  She 
was  blooming,  and  fair,  and  young,  as  if  time  had  not  touched 
her. 

"  But  you  see,''  continued  Sybil,  who  was  telling  the  story 
to  some  imaginary  listener,  "  it  was  true,  for  all  that ;  for  when 
they  gave  her  food,  and  it  passed  her  lips,  all  her  beauty,  all  her 
youth  perished  in  one  moment,  and  withering  into  sudden  age, 
she  sank  and  died.  She  had  been  in  Paradise  all  the  time,  and 
could  not  live  upon  earth.  Blackbird,  blackbird,  don't  you  take 
me  away  to  Paradise  !  "  thought  Sybil,  looking  up  saucily  at  the 
little  black  songster  on  the  bough.  "  I  don't  want  to  leave 
earth  just  yet.  I  am  young,  you  see,  and  pretty,  they  say,  and 
loved  perhaps,  and  it  would  never  do  to  come  back  with  three 
hundred  years  on  my  head,  and  find  graves  in  forgotten  church- 
yards— would  it,  now  ? " 

A  brilliant  trill  was  blackbird's  reply.  Alas!  he  was  no 
heavenly  bird,  we  fear,  and  his  conversation  was  on  earth  with 
his  lady-love  just  then,  such  a  conversation  as  Mr.  Dermot,  who 
now  suddenly  entered  Sybil's  bower,  was  much  inclined  for. 
His  face  told  her  his  errand.  Miss  Glyn  had  said  that  she 
would  drive  off  to  Saint  Vincent  early,  and  Mr.  Dermot  had 
availed  himself  of  the  knowledge. 

"  My  aunt  is  out,"  said  Sybil. 

"  I  know  it,  Sybil ;  but  I  want  you,  not  Miss  Glyn." 

He  sat  down  by  her  side.  His  voice  was  sad,  his  look  was 
grave.     Sybil's  heart  sank.     What  new  trouble  was  this  ? 


3  GO  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Sybil,  I  spoke  to  your  father  this  morning.  My  prophecy 
is  fulfilling  fast.  That  woman  will  make  ns  enemies,  without 
even  taking  the  trouble  to  do  so.  Your  father  knows  and  sus- 
pects the  past,  and  he  half  hates,  half  fears  me.  It  was  to  divide 
us  that  he  brought  you  here.  God  help  him  if  he  thought  that 
I  could  look  on  his  wife  with  a  treacherous  eye  !  Sybil,  I  love 
you,  and  you  know  it,  and  you  believe  iu  me;  but  though  I 
told  him  so,  he  doubted.  He  did  all  he  could,  Sybil,  to  with- 
hold his  consent,  and  if  he  gave  it  at  last,  it  was  because  he  did 
not  dare  to  say  me  nay.  Ungenerous  and  reluctant  though  it 
be,  I  have  it,  however,  and  now  I  require  but  yours.  Before 
you  speak,  Sybil,  let  me  tell  you  that  matters  are  pretty  nearly 
with  me  as  they  were  on  the  morning  after  the  ball.  I  have  a 
keen  enemy,  not  a  strong  one,  I  hope,  but  the  girl  I  marry  must 
be  prepared  for  possible  trouble  and  grief.  Sybil,  I  am  selfish 
enough  to  ask  you  to  be  that  girl ;  but,  oh  !  think  of  it  well," 
he  added,  sadly,  "do  not  say  yes  if  you  fear  repentance  or 
regret." 

Sybil  looked  up  at  him  with  sad,  reproachful  eyes. 

"Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said,  "be  honest.  You  know  I  like 
you,  and  you  come  to  me  in  kindness  and  in  affection — but 
oh  !  not  in  love.  And  yet  I  told  you  once  what  I  would  have, 
and  I  will  have  no  less." 

"  Not  in  love  ! "  said  Mr.  Dermot,  his  face  flushing  with 
pain ;  "  in  what  then,  Sybil  ?  For  what  other  woman  would 
I  so  far  humble  my  pride  that  I  would  come  to  her  with  the 
confession  I  have  just  uttered?  Sybil,  it  is  man's  right  and 
privilege  to  bring  happiness  and  security  where  he  loves.  It  is 
his  right  and  duty  to  guard  his  wife  from  all  sorrow,  and  make 
her  life  as  happy  as  a  summer's  day.  And  I  cannot  do  this.  I 
am  cut  off  by  a  hard  fate  from  one  of  the  most  generous  privi- 
leges of  manhood.  I  believe  I  can  promise  that  poverty  shall 
never  come  near  you — beyond  this  I  cannot  go.  Money  and 
myself  are  all  I  have  to  give  the  woman  who  will  have  me.  Do 
not  think,"  he  added,  looking  at  her  keenly,  "  I  am  not  aware 
that  in  acting  as  I  act  I  am  selfish  ;  but  I  neither  can  nor  will 
help  it.  I  see  sorrow  in  store  for  me,  but  if  I  can  snatch  a  few 
of  life's  blessings  I  will.  I  will  have  love,  and  beauty,  and 
youth,  and  sweet  companionship,  Sybil,  and  trust  to  God  for  a 
calm  future.  Sybil,  Sybil,  when  we  are  married,  and  you  know 
all,  you  will  say  that  passion  was  strong  on  Edward  Dermot 
the  day  he  asked  you  to  marry  him;  and  who  knows,  Sybil, 
you  well  wish,  perhaps,  that  he  had  loved  you  less." 


SYBIL  S   SECOND   LOVE.  361 

Sybil  turned  pale  as  death. 

"  You  wrong  me,"  she  said,  "  you  wrong  me.  I  can  never 
wish  that.  Let  what  trouble,  what  calamity  come  over  you 
that  it  may  please  God  to  send,  I  can  never  wish  that." 

"Then  you  will  marry  me,  Sybil?"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  Give  me  time  to  be  sure  of  you,"  she  replied,  sadly. 

"  Let  us  get  married  at  once,  Sybil,  and  you  will  be  sure 
enouo-h  of  me  then." 

But  this  prompt  way  of  securing  him,  though  it  would  have 
been  highly  to  Mr.  Dermot's  liking,  would  not  suit  Sybil. 

u  You  little  skeptic,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  impatience, 
"  can  I  take  a  yard  and  measure  love  to  convince  you  \  " 

"  It  is  all  so  new  to  you,"  she  pleaded. 

"Who  knows,  Sybil?"  he  replied,  reddening  slightly.  "I 
never  could  bear  that  Count  de  Renneville.  I  cannot  bear  even 
now  to  remember  that  you  once  liked  him — not  much,  it  is 
true,  but  too  much  by  far." 

He  spoke  with  a  resentful  jealousy,  that  went  to  Sybil's 
heart.     She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 

"Yes,  I  liked  him,"  she  said  calmly,  "but  I  never  loved 
him,  or  I  could  not  have  forgotten  him  in  a  few  days.  I  liked 
him,  but  as  we  like  men  and  women  in  dreams — it  is  all  over 
when  we  waken  in  the  morning.  Was  it  so,  Mr.  Dermot,  that 
you  liked  Blanche  Cains  ? " 

"  No,"  he  replied  honestly,  "  for  that  is  not  love ;  and  I 
loved  her,  Sybil — I  loved  her  as  much  as  I  loathe  her  now. 
But  let  U6  forget  them  both,  Sybil,  and  think  of  our  own  con- 
cerns— life  is  short,  and  time  is  passing  away.  Listen  to  that 
bird  above  us ;  he  is  singing  to  his  mistress,  nay,  to  his  wife. 
The  storm  may  come  and  shatter  his  nest  to-morrow,  he  is 
happy  to-day.  To  me,  too,  the  storm  may  come,  Sybil;  do 
not  grudge  me  a  few  happy  hours  ere  it  breaks. 

There  was  a  passionate  longing  in  his  voice  that  went  to 
Sybil's  heart  and  convinced  her.  But,  indeed,  did  she  need 
convincing  ?  She  said  not  a  word,  but  she  gave  him  her  hand. 
Once  more  that  little  childish  hand  lay  within  his,  but  it  was 
warm  and  happy  now. 

"I  know  there  is  a  doubt  in  you  still,"  he  said  reproach- 
fully ;  "  but  I  cannot  deal  in  professions,  Sybil,  so  you  must 
take  me  upon  trust." 

"  I  will — I  will,"  replied  Sybil  gayly  ;  "and  when  T  think 
you  like  me  enough,  I  shall  tell  you  so.  I  will  come  to 
16 


3G2  sybil's  second  love. 

you,  Mr.  Dermot,  and  say,  'You  like  me  enough  now — quite 
enough.'  " 

"Give  me  your  word  upon  it,  Sybil." 

She  gave  him  her  word,  and  Sybil  would  keep  that  promise, 
he  knew.  She  would  come  to  him  fond,  frank,  and  happy. 
She  would  say  to  him,  "  You  like  me  quite  enough,  Mr.  Der- 
rnot ; "  and  perhaps  he  would  give  her  cause  to  say,  "  You  like 
me  too  much,"  for,  alas  !  Mr.  Dermot  just  then  felt  in  the  mood 
of  every  fond  folly. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?"  uneasily  asked  Sybil. 

"  Of  revenge,"  severely  replied  Mr.  Dermot. 

For  a  vindictive  man  Mr.  Dermot  also  looked  a  very  happy 
one ;  but  he  was  not  so  happy  as  Sybil,  for  he  only  got  what 
he  had  never  lost,  and  she  had  won  what  she'had^  never  hoped 
to  possess.  They  had  both  risen,  and  stood  arm-in-arm  on  the 
grass  beneath  the  tree.  Suddenly  Sybil  uttered  a  little  cry. 
One  of  the  young  birds  had  fallen  from  the  nest  above  down  to 
her  feet.  Mr.  Dermot  picked  it  up,  and  placed  it  in  her  hand. 
Sybil  gave  it  a  tender  look,  whilst  the  mother  flew  around  them 
with  a  piteous  cry. 

"Ah!  put  it  back,"  said  Sybil  to  Mr.  Dermot,  "put  it  back. 
I  should  like  to  keep  it,  but  I  must  not  rob  the  poor  mother ; 
but  can  you  reach  the  nest,  Mr.  Dermot  ? " 

He  smiled,  and,  taking  the  bird  from  her  hand,  he  Avas  up 
the  tree  and  down  again  in  a  few  moments.  Sybil  gave  a  little 
sigh  of  regret  as  he  "came  back  empty-handed,  and  looking  into 
her  face,  he  read  its  meaning. 

"  Shall  I  get  it  back  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  she  replied,  arresting  him  by  her  hand  laid  on 
his  arm.  "  Oh  !  no,  do  not.  Let  the  mother  keep  her  young 
one." 

There  was  something  in  Sybil's  tone  that  jarred  on  Mr.  Der- 
mot. He  stood  still  and  looked  at  her  with  a  face  suddenly 
overcast. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said  rather  moodily,  "  it  is  not  too  late,  you 
are  free  still  if  you  repent." 

"  Free  !  "  said  Sybil  vaguely,  "  free  ! " 

"  Yes,  Sybil,  free — for  truly  mine  is  no  lot  to  share. 

He  said  it  aud  he  meant  it. 

"  I  can  see  she  is  a  true  woman,"  he  thought.  "  She  will 
love  her  husband,  but  she  will  love  her  child  ten  times  more  ; 
and  the  day  on  which  a  child  is  born  to  me  will  be  a  day  of 
sorrow  and  humiliation." 


sybil's  second  love.  363 

He  bad  told  her  she  was  free  !  Oh !  cruel  words — cruel 
and  pitiless  !  Mr.  Dermot  repented  them  the  moment  they 
were  spoken,  hut  he  could  not  call  them  back,  Sybil  gave  him 
a  look  full  of  reproach  and  woe. 

"  Why  do  you  tell  me  this  ?  "  she  said  pitifully  ;  "  you  know 
I  cannot  help  myself — that  whatever  lot  lies  before  us,  there  is 
none  so  hard  as  being  free,  as  you  call  it.  I  was  so  happy  a 
while  back." 

"And  so  was  I,  Sybil,"  he  said  sadly,  "the  happiest  man 
alive  :  and  now  the  darkness  has  all  come  back,  for  a  thought 
haunts  me,  Sybil.  I  cannot  make  you  happy.  Ask  yourself 
how  you  would  feel  if  you  thought  that  all  wretchedness  was  to 
come  to  me  through  you." 

"  It  would  pierce  my  heart,"  replied  Sybil,  her  tears  flowing 
at  the  thought ;  "  but  that  is  not  your  case,  Mr.  Dermot.  Be- 
lieve me,  whatever  fate  it  is  you'ask  me  to  share,  I  can  say  like 
Ruth,  'Whithersoever  thou  shalt  go  I  will  go  ;  and  where  thou 
shalt  dwell,  I  will  also  dwell.  Thy  people  shall  be  my  people, 
and  thy  God  my  God,'  and  I  will  never  repent  it,"  she  added, 
bending  her  flushed  face. 

"  Oh  !  Sybil,  Sybil,"  he  said,  half  sorrowfully,  "  do  not  love 
me  so  much  ;  for  surely  such  love  as  yours  is  like  the  manifold 
blessings  showered  by  the  gods  on  Polycrates,  the  forerunner 
of  all  loss." 

"  But  you  cannot  lose  it,"  said  Sybil,  smiling  divinely  ;  "  it 
is  yours  forever,  you  know." 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  may  die,  Sybil,"  he  said,  with  sorrowful  pas- 
sion ;  "you  may  die,  and  tell  me  then  what  I  should  do  with- 
out you  ?     It  is  sickening  to  think  of." 

"  Oh  !  you  will  love  again,"  said  Sybil,  in  a  sad,  low  voice. 

"Never!"  he  exclaimed,  standing  still,  and  speaking  with 
much  energy.  "  I  could  not — I  would  not,  Sybil.  This  is  my 
last  and  most  precious  venture  on  that  sea.  I  might  marry,  but 
love  again,  never,  never  !  " 

There  was  a  sorrowful  cadence  in  his  voice,  that  was  more 
than  convincing.  It  was  certainty  to  hear  him.  Sybil  looked 
up,  and  he  bent  down.  He  kissed  her,  and  as  his  trembling 
lips  touched  her  cheek,  Sybil  felt,  "I  am  his  forever — forever !  " 


361:  sybil's  second  love. 


CHAPTER    L. 

TVheit  Miss  Glyn  came  back,  Mr.  Dermot  was  gone,  and 
Sybil  did  not  tell  her  that  he  had  come.  She  could  not  bear 
that  any  should  share  her  great  joy,  or  even  suspect  it.  For 
now  it  was  indeed  a  true  "  at  last."  Even  in  the  bitterness  with 
which  he  had  spoken,  she  had  read  love.  "  And  when  I  see 
him  again,"  thought  Sybil,  "  I  shall  tell  him  he  loves  me  quite 
enough."  Poor  Miss  Glyn !  she  noticed  Sybil's  happy  looks, 
and  congratulated  her  on  the  change. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  could  never  have  got 
on  "well  in  Saint  Vincent,  never.     I  am  glad  you  came  here." 

"  And  so  am  I,"  saucily  said  Sybil. 

"  I  met  Mr.  Dermot,"  continued  Miss  Glyn  ;  "  he  was  disap- 
pointed not  to  have  found  me  within,  but  he  will  call  again  this 
evening.  I  must  say  Mr.  Dermot  improves  upon  acquaintance, 
and  that  I  am  much  obliged  to  him  for  the  trouble  he  is 
taking." 


Sybil  was  all  openness  and  truth.  If  this  had  been  her  own 
secret,  and  not  his  as  well  as  hers,  she  would  have  told  it  to 
her  aunt  that  moment,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  do  so,  so  Miss 
Glyn  went  on : 

"  Poor  Mr.  Dermot !  I  have  a  strong  impression  that  Miss 
Cains — I  will  never  call  her  otherwise — made  a  fool  of  him. 
Well,  well,  he  had  a  narrow  escape  !  " 

Sybil  turned  her  face  away. 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  hide  it,"  she  thought,  "  if  aunt 
goes  on  so." 

Luckily  Miss  Glyn  had  concerns  of  her  own  to  think  of,  and 
Mr.  Dermot  was  soon  forgotten. 

He  came  that  evening.  Another  happy  evening  snatched 
from  time,  if  Sybil  had  but  known  it.  Mr.  Dermot  improved 
even  more  upon  Miss  Glyn's  acquaintance  this  time  than  the 
last. 

"He  is  very  pleasant,"  she  said  to  Sybil,  when  he  was 
gone.  "  I  think  it  a  great  pity  he  made  himself  so  awfully  dis- 
agreeable formerly." 

Sybil  longed  to  say  : 

"  Why,  aunt,  you  were  disagreeable,  not  he." 

But  apart  from  the  fact  that  such  a  remark  would  have  been 
very  disrespectful,  Miss  Glyn's  perfect  sincerity  kept  her  mute. 


Sybil's  second  love.  365 

It  was  in  all  good  faith  that  Sybil's  aunt  daily  fell  into  inconsis- 
tencies, and  all  the  time  she  was  so  certain  that  others  were  to 
blame,  and  that  she  was  sinless. 

"  I  wonder  when  he  will  tell  aunt,  or  when  I  shall  go  back 
to  Saint  Vincent,"  thought  Sybil,  when  she  was  up  in  her  room. 
"  I  cannot  bear  to  deceive  or  cheat  her — it  is  like  Blanche 
Cains,  and  I  will  tell  him  so." 

In  the  mean  time  she  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  of  Duessa,  and 
Una,  and  the  Redcross  Knight,  and  of  dragons,  and  enchant- 
ments, strange  and  dreary. 

But  the  world  was  gay,  and  a  bright  sun  shone,  when  Sybil 
rose  the  next  morning.  She  saw  the  river  glistening  in  its  light, 
and  the  wide  moor  was  white  and  gold  with  flowers  that  danced 
in  the  sun.  She  threw  a  handkerchief  over  her  head  and  ran 
out.  That  wild  solitude  attracted  her.  The  wind  that  swept 
over  its  green  wastes  had  music  in  it :  the  flowers  were  sweeter 
than  the  roses  of  Saint  Vincent. 

"  I  am  glad  I  was  brought  here,"  thought  Sybil ;  "  oh  !  how 
true  it  is  that  every  thing  is  for  the  best — I  would  not  have 
stayed  there  for  any  thing  now.     I  wonder  if  that  cromlech  is . 
far  away." 

The  white  stones  shone  in  the  sun  and  looked  near;  but 
Sybil  found  that  they  looked  nearer  than  they  were.  _  She 
would  not  be  conquered,  however,  and  never  stopped  till  she 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  Druidical  pile.  How  large  it  looked, 
now  that  she  stood  close  to  it !  How  small  those  huge  rude  old 
stones  made  Sybil  feel  as  she  sat  at  their  base,  and  rested  in 
their  shadow,  thinking  of  the  far  times  when  men  first  reared 
them  in  that  wilderness  !  Not  far  from  where  she  sat,  wound 
the  road,  a  narrow  and  stony  path,  but  the  only  one  Avhich 
crossed  the  waste.  Ere  long  the  echoing  gallop  of  a  horse 
made  Sybil  start  up  with  something  like  fear.  The  country 
was  safe  indeed,  but  she  did  not  like  being  alone  here,  so  far 
from  home  at  that  hour,  and  wondered  whether  she  ought  to 
turn  back.  Wiser  than  this  course  it  seemed  to  her  was  to  hide 
behind  the  stones,  and  see  who  came  along  this  lonely  path,  so 
she  slipped  round  the  pillars  of  the  cromlechs,  and,  concealed 
by  the  hindermost  one,  she  waited  till  the  horseman  should 
have  gone  by.  But  the  handkerchief  which  Sybil  had  put  on 
her  head  to  shade  it  from  the  sun  had  unluckily  remained  be- 
hind. The  wind  caught  it  and  blew  it  across  the  road,  where 
the  stranger  at  once  saw  it.     It  was  a  gay  little  handkerchief, 


366  sybil's  second  love. 

embroidered  and  festooned,  and  no  doubt  seemed  a  prize,  fof 
Mr.  Dermot  alighted,  picked  it  up,  and  at  once  went  up  to  the 
cromlechs,  walked  round,  and  found  Sybil. 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  you,"  she  said,  rather  vexed  to  be 
found  hiding. 

"Why,  Sybil,  what  brings  you  here?  You  are  a  mile 
away,  at  least." 

"  Well,  and  how  many  miles  are  you  ? " 

"  Oh !  but  I  am  out  on  business." 

"And  I  on  pleasure." 

"  And  I  am  not  bareheaded,  Sybil." 

"  Nor  shall  I  be  if  you  will  return  me  that  handkerchief." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  but  he  did  not  give  it  to  her.  He 
looked  at  it  admiringly,  and  said, 

"  You  worked  that,  Sybil — you  have  clever  little  fingers." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  Mr.  Dermot ;  but  I  do  know 
that  the  sun  is  very  hot !  " 

The  handkerchief  was  returned  at  once. 

"  You  are  going  to  my  aunt's,  I  suppose  ? "  said  Sybil. 

"  No,  I  am  going  to  Saint  Vincent." 

"  But  this  is  the  long  road." 

"  I  dislike  the  short  one.  Shall  I  take  you  home  on  horse- 
back, Sybil  ? " 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  do  not  trust  that  new  horse  of  yours, 
he  has  a  wicked  green  eye." 

"  Not  trust  Ebony  ?  See  how  quietly  he  stands.  That 
horse  is  a  lamb  ! " 

Sybil  shook  her  head  skeptically.  Mr.  Dermot,  nothing 
loath  to  linger  near  her,  called  Ebony,  who  came  to  him  neigh- 
ing fondly. 

"  Now,  is  he  not  a  noble  creature  ? "  said  Mr.  Dermot,  look- 
ing at  him  with  admiration.  "  Did  you  ever  see  so  black  a 
coat,  Sybil,  or  one  so  glossy?  And  then  he  is  so  finely  propor- 
tioned. I  found  him  rough,  shaggy,  uncared  for,  in  a  farm- 
yard, where  no  one  could  appreciate  his  worth;  and  look  at  him 
now ! " 

Sybil  looked,  and  shrank  back.  Ebony  was  very  handsome, 
but  he  had  a  strange  look. 

"  I  would  not  trust  him,"  she  said. 

"  Not  trust  him  ! "  he  replied.  "  Why,  have  I  not  saved 
him  from  misery,  and  indulged  and  petted  him  to  his  heart's 
content?     Not  trust  Ebony  !     Look  at  him,  Sybil." 


SYBIL  S    SECOXD   LOVE.  307 

He  approached  the  horse,  who  stood  very  still. 

"  Take  care ! "  cried  Sybil,  but  she  spoke  too  late.  Mr. 
Dermot  lay  bleeding  and  prostrate  at  her  feet,  and  Ebony  was 
oft',  galloping  across  the  moor,  neighing  and  snorting,  and  toss- 
ing his  black  mane  in  defiance. 

At  first  Sybil  could  neither  move  nor  speak,  so  sudden,  so 
rapid  had  it  all  been.  She  knelt  and  bent  over  him;  he  was 
senseless,  and  for  a  moment  Sybil  thought  him  dead.  But  no, 
she  felt  his  heart,  and  faint  though  its  beatings  were,  she 
detected  them.  But,  alas  !  what  should  she  do  ?  There  was 
no  chance  of  a  passer-by.  No  one  had  seen  her  come  out,  and 
no  one,  therefore,  would  seek  her  here.  Should  she,  then,  leave 
him  alone,  perhaps  to  die  \  And  yet  there  was  no  help  for  it — 
hard  though  it  was,  she  must.  She  rose  and  took  a  few  steps 
away  from  him,  but  twice  she  came  back,  weeping  and  wring- 
ing her  hands  in  anguish.  Oh !  that  he  would  waken  out  of 
that  deathdike  sleep — that  those  fixed  eyes,  which  gazed  and 
saw  her  not,  woidd  give  her  hope  and  consolation.  "  I  must 
go,"  she  thought,  and  a  third  time  she  went,  and  went  without 
looking  back. 

It  was  not  long  ere  Sybil  returned,  accompanied.  Mr.  Der- 
mot was  still  in  a  swoon,  and  was  conveyed  unconscious  to  Miss 
Glyn's  house.  That  lady  had  come  out  for  him  herself,  and 
was  profoundly  silent  the  whole  way  home.  To  Sybil's  breath- 
less inquiries  and  scared  looks  she  returned  no  other  reply  than 
"How  should  I  know?  "  or  a  shake  of  the  head,  which  made 
Sybil's  heart  feel  like  lead.  Indeed,  Miss  Glyn  thought  Mr. 
Dermot  all  but  a  dead  man,  and  when,  several  hours  later,  a 
doctor  came  from  Saint  Vincent,  he  did  not  say  much  to  re- 
move this  sentence  from  Mr.  Dermot's  head. 

"  Even  if  he  recovers,"  he  said,  cautiously,  "  I  doubt  if  ever 
the  poor  gentleman  will  be  again  what  he  has  been." 

Sybil  heard  him,  and  felt  as  if  the  words  turned  her  into 
stone.  She  looked  at  the  couch  on  which  Edward  Dermot  had 
been  laid  ;  she  saw  his  pale  face,  pale  as  death,  his  hair  dabbled 
with  blood,  his  inanimate  limbs,  and  she  remembered  him 
handsome,  strong,  and  full  of  life,  as  he  had  stood  before  her 
that  morning.  And  even  if  he  lived,  never  again  should  he  be 
such — never!  Life  was  robbed  of  its  blessings  for  him,  and 
health  and  strength  were  as  things  that  had.  been.  She  could 
not  bear  to  look  at  him,  and  to  think  that  such  was  his  fate. 
She  left  the  room,  and  walked  out. 


368  Sybil's  second  love. 

She  went  she  knew  not  whither  at  first,  hut  she  soon  dis- 
covered what  feeling;  had  led  her  when  she  found  herself  in  the 
moor,  walking  fast  toward  the  cromlech.  She  stopped  short, 
and  looked  around  her  with  a  bursting  heart.  The  low-plain  lay- 
wide  as  a  sea  in  the  red  light  of  the  sunset.  A  haze  of  gold 
spread  from  earth  to  heaven.  The  wearied  sun  was  sinking 
down  to  rest,  and  like  a  journeyer  whose  goal  is  reached,  he 
cast  one  long  last  look  on  the  broad  moor.  The  rapid  river, 
that  darkened  as  it  flowed,  went  through  the  waste  to  meet 
night  hidden  far  away  in  low  misty  horizons.  It  was  a  glorious 
sunset,  and  glittering  afar,  Sybil  could  see  the  fatal  cromlech. 
"  I  will  go — I  will  go,"  she  thought,  and  on  she  went  till  she 
reached  it. 

Oh !  how  cruel  is  the  passive  indifference  of  all  inanimate 
objects  to  man's  sorrow !  There  they  stood,  the  grim  old 
stones,  that  had  beheld  ages  go  by,  and  what  was  Sybil's  grief 
to  them?  She  flung  herself  on  the  grass  that  had  drunk  his 
blood  that  morning;,  and  which  sweet  evening  dews  were  al- 
ready  bathing ;  and  what  did  grass,  or  flowers,  or  earth,  or  sky 
care  for  her  passionate  tears,  and  her  poor  young  heart's  an- 
guish? "What  did  they  care  fur  that  full  tide  of  life  which  was 
ebbing  away  in  her  aunt's  parlor,  or  for  the  happy  strength  that 
would  never  return. 

"  Oh  !  I  cannot  stay  here,"  suddenly  thought  Sybil,  rising. 
"  What  if  he  should  die  whilst  I  am  away  ?  " 

She  went  home  at  full  speed,  and  reached  the  house  breath- 
less. Miss  Glyn  was  the  first  person  she  met.  Sybil  looked 
at  her  eagerly ;  but  Miss  Glyn's  face  was  mute,  and  said 
nothing. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Dermot?"  asked  Sybil  at  length. 

"  In  the  same  state — come  in  here,  Sybil." 

She  took  her  into  a  small  store-room,  and  shut  the  door 
carefully.  They  were  both  in  the  darkness,  yet  Sybil  felt  her- 
self turning  crimson. 

"  Sybil,"  said  Miss  Glynn,  "  may  I  ask  what  is  the  nature  of 
your  feelings  for  Mr.  Dermot?" 

_  Sybil  was  silent.     She  would  neither  tell  the  truth  nor  dis- 
guise it. 

"  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  what  Mr.  Dermot  feels  for  you  ? " 

"  He  loves  me,"  replied  Sybil  proudly. 

"  Well,  but  have  you  reason  to  believe  that  he  wishes  to 
many  you?" 


sybil's  second  loye.  369 

"  Yes,  aunt,  I  Lave."  But  even  as  she  said  it,  Sybil 
thought,  with  a  pang,  of  his  pale,  senseless  face,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Glynn  after  a  pause,  "  he  is  in  so  deplor- 
able a  condition,  poor  fellow  !  that  I  must  be  lenient,  but  I  must 
say  I  think  it  was  too  bad  to  come  here  after  you  without  first 
speaking  to  me ;  and,  Sybil,  take  my  advice — keep  your  feel- 
ings under  control.  You  know  that  Mr.  Dermot's  recovery  is, 
unfortunately,  very  doubtful." 

"  Oh  !  aunt — aunt,  do  not  say  so  ! "  piteously  cried  Sybil — 
"  do  not !  It  was  but  yesterday  morning  that  he  asked  me  to 
become  his  wife,  and  that  I  felt  so  happy — do  not  say  so  !  " 

Miss  Glyn  said  nothing.  She  was  too  kind-hearted  to  scold, 
and  she  was  too  much  provoked  to  conceal  it  if  she  did  speak. 
So  she  took  the  wisest  course,  and  was  mute. 

And  now  life  and  death  held  one  of  their  great  battles  over 
a  sick-bed.  Miss  Glyn's  commercial  establishment  was  turned 
into  a  hospital.  Doctors,  surgeons  came,  some  from  hundreds 
of  miles,  to  see  Mr.  Dermot.  Remorse  for  the  weakness  of  his 
friendship  seemed  to  have  entered  Mr.  Kennedy's  heart.  He 
was  incessant  in  his  watching  and  his  cares.  He  took  one  lono- 
journey  on  purpose  to  consult  a  celebrated  medical  man  who 
had  refused  to  come,  and  by  dint  of  prayers  and  entreaties,  he 
brought  him,  and  dismissed  him  with  a  princely  fee.  Mrs. 
Kennedy's  flowing  skirts  rustled  near  the  sick-bed,  where  Mr. 
Dermot  lay  all  but  dying,  and  she  once  left  the  room  with  her 
face  buried  in  a  cambric  pocket-handkerchief.  To  her  new 
circle,  Mrs.  Ronald  and  the  rest,  she  spoke  of  this  fatal  accident 
as  having  nearly  sent  Mr.  Kennedy  out  of  his  senses,  and  hav- 
ing thrown  her  into  a  fainting  fit  of  twenty  minutes'  duration. 
Did  she  act  her  part  well,  or  was  it  all  a  part  ?  Did  she  feel 
it  needful  to  hide  a  mortal  hate  under  the  guise  of  sorrow  ?  or 
did  old  love  waken  anew  in  her  heart,  not  in  its  early  ardor, 
indeed,  but  at  least  in  its  tender  pity  ?  Alas  !  human  nature 
is  so  complex,  that  both  hypotheses  might  be  true.  She  might 
grieve  for  Mr.  Dermot  when  he  was  dying,  and  she  might  hatefi 
him  when  he  was  recoverino;. 

Whatever  her  feelings  were,  her  word  was  taken  for  Gospel 
truth.     Mrs.  Ronald's  admiration  for  Mrs.  Kennedy  went  on  in- 
creasing, and  her  disapprobation  of  Sybil  increased  in  the  same 
ratio.     She  learned,  through  what  mysterious  channol  she  did 
10* 


370  sybil's  secoxd  loye. 

not  say,  that  Miss  Kennedy  never  shed  a  tear  nor  showed  the 
least  sign  of  emotion,  but  was  as  cold  as  a  piece  of  marble. 

There  was  some  truth  in  the  simile.  Sybil  felt  stone  indeed. 
Her  father's  zeal,  Mrs.  Kennedy's  stately  visits,  even  Mrs. 
Mush's  friendly  calls  and  genuine  sympathy  left  her  cold.  By 
none  of  these  was  Mr.  Dermot  loved,  and  she  knew  it.  Her 
heart  opened  and  melted  but  to  one,  and  this  was  a  kind,  self- 
constituted  nurse,  who  watched  day  and  night  by  the  sick  man's 
bed,  whose  tears  flowed  when  his  case  seemed  hopeless,  whose 
face  brightened  with  every  glimmer  of  hope. 

"  Aunt,  I  love  you,"  Sybil  sometimes  said  to  her.  And  on 
the  day  when  Mr.  Dei-mot  was  pronounced  out  of  danger — 
though  not  without  the  intimation  that  perfect  recovery  was 
doubtful,  and  would  at  the  best  be  the  work  of  time — ou  the 
day  when  this  qualified  verdict  nevertheless  filled  Sybil's  heart 
with  joy,  so  long  unhoped  for  had  it  been,  she  flung  her  arms 
around  Miss  Glyn's  neck,  and,  bursting  into  passionate  sobs  and 
tears,  she  cried, 

"Aunt,  aunt,  I  love  you  next  to  him." 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Miss  Glyn,  whose  eyes  were  dim,  "  he 
was  so  strong,  so  handsome,  too  ;  but  you  do  well  to  cling  to 
him  as  he  is,  Sybil,  you  do  well,  for  on  my  word  I  believe  he 
deserves  it." 


-♦-»*- 


CHAPTER     LI. 

Three  weeks  after  this  day,  Sybil  was  sitting  alone  with  Mr. 
Dermot,  when  he  suddenly  said  to  her, 

"  Sybil,  I  should  not  like  to  die,  and  yet  I  am  afraid  I  must. 
I  feel  as  if  the  hand  of  death  were  upon  me.  What  a  pity, 
Sybil,"  he  added,  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  radiant 
landscape,  then  down  back  again  to  her  face,  on  which  the  sun- 
V(;i  shone,  giving  it  as  a  glow  of  heaven,  "  it  is  such  a  beautiful 
"  irld,  and  life  with  vou  seemed  so  delicious.  Sybil,  sickness 
is  a  great  betrayer  of  all  manliness.  I  feel  as  lackadaisical  as  a 
girl  of  fifteen  just  leaving  school.  You  see  man  is  not  made 
for  such  passive  endurance;  strife — strife  is  his  element.  And 
I  have  none  here.  I  am  in  the  very  lap  of  kindness  and  of  love. 
There  never  was   so  fund  a  nurse  as  Miss  Glyn,  nor  so  sweet  a 


sybil's  second  love.  371 

companion  as  Miss  Glyn's  niece.  Sybil,  I  cannot  bear  to  leave 
you." 

Sybil  checked  her  tears,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  You  shall  not  leave  me,"  she  said,  "  the  doctor —  " 

"  My  darling,"  he  interrupted,  with  a  sigh,  "  doctors  are 
the  greatest  deceivers.  It  is  their  trade  not  to  tell  the  truth. 
But  I  would  not  talk  of  all  this  if  I  had  not  an  object  in  view. 
My  recovery  will  certainly  be  slow,  and  I  may  never  recover.  I 
wish  that  we  may  be  married  at  once.  I  am  a  rich  man,  Sybil, 
and  I  want  to  leave  you  all  I  have  if  I  die.  Your  father  is  not 
wealthy,  and  I  much  fear  he  will  die  poor — and  poor  Miss  Glyn 
has  nothing  to  leave  you.     Let  your  lot,  at  least,  be  safe." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  marry  you  for  your  money,"  half  angrily 
said  Sybil. 

"  Nor  do  I,  Sybil.  I  want  you  to  marry  me  for  myself,  and 
to  make  me  know  the  taste  of  that  rare  food,  happiness.  I 
have  had  a  cold  hard  life  from  youth  upward,  you  see,  a  life  of 
toil  and  solitude,  and  few  pleasures,  but  no  joys.  I  should  like 
a  change  now,  Sybil.  I  am  wearied  of  all  labor.  We  will  do 
nothing  when  we  are  married,  Sybil,  but  love,  and  perhaps 
travel." 

"  I  should  not  like  my  husband  to  do  nothing,"  said  Sybil, 
reddening.     "  I  should  like  him  to  work  and  be  useful — " 

"  And  honored  and  respected,"  said  Mr.  Dermot,  with  much 
irony. 

"  I  should  like  that  too,"  said  Sybil ;  "  though  I  could  do 
without  it ;  but,  Mr.  Dermot,  I  should  like  him  to  be  true  to 
God's  gifts.  And  to  think  of  a  man  of  your  mind,  Mr.  Dermot, 
doing  nothing  bnt  travelling  and  loving  a  little  girl  like  me !  " 

"  Is  shocking,"  he  suggested.  "  I  do  not  think  so,  Sybil. 
I  tell  you  it  is  this  sickness  that  takes  all  manliness  from  me ; 
but  I  am  like  the  lotus-eaters.  Oh  !  rest  is  delicious,  Sybil,  and 
the  gardens  of  Armida  were  no  fable.  Depend  upon  it,  we  find 
them  whenever  we  shut  out  life's  bitter  cares,  and  take  refuge 
in  a  fond  true  heart.  Let  Jerusalem  perish,  Sybil,  or  let  better 
knights  raise  her  fallen  walls.  I  am  sick  of  the  din  of  war,  and 
do  not  grudge  me  that  all  I  care  for  now  is  a  few  happy  days, 
since  Heaven  will  not  grant  me  years — with  you." 

There  wTas  a  sorrow  in  his  fondness  that  went  to  Sybil's 
heart. 

"  I  grudge  you  nothing — nothing,"  she  cried,  breaking  into 
sobs  and  tears,  and  flinging  her  arms  around  his  neck,   "  be 


372  Sybil's  second  love. 

happy  with  me,  if  I  can  indeed  make  you  happy — days  or  years, 
as  God  wills ;  but,  oh !  Mr.  Dermot,  as  you  love  me  do  not 
speak  as  if  }7our  love  for  me  took  all  nobleness  or  purpose  from 
you." 

"  It  does  not,  Sybil.  A  girl  like  you  never  yet  inspired  so 
low  a  passion.  But,  Sybil,  my  Lard  fate  so  hems  me  in  that 
you  are  all  I  can  really  care  to  live  for.  There  are  plenty  of 
men  in  my  case,  Sybil,  and  they  go  to  the  dogs  as  a  rule. 
Thank  God,  then,  that  He  gave  me  a  good  little  creature  like 
you  to  be  fond  of,  and  happy  with.  We  must  have  passions 
nine  out  of  ten  of  us.  Blest  are  they  to  whom  passion  comes 
not  under  the  guise  of  cards,  or  wine,  or  ignoble  desires,  but 
under  such  an  aspect  as  this,"  he  added,  smiling  in  her  face. 

"  Will  you  never  tell  me  your  trouble  ?  "  sha  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Yes,  Sybil,  when  we  are  married.  You  would  not  have 
me  if  I  told  you  now." 

"  You  wrong  me,"  said  Sybil,  her  face  flushing  with  pain, 
"  you  wrong  me." 

And  she  left  his  side,  and  for  all  his  entreaties  would  not  go 
back. 

They  sat  thus  apart  in  the  gray  twilight,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  Miss  Glyn  entered  the  room. 

"How  do  you  feel,  Mr.  Dermot?"  she  asked,  sitting  down 
by  him. 

He  did  not  answer  her  at  once.  The  sound  of  her  voice 
struck  him. 

"I  am  better,"  he  said  at  length,  "and  to-morrow  I  shall 
bid  you  good-by,  and  return  to  Saint  Vincent." 

No  hospitable  entreaty  passed  Miss  Glyn's  lips.  Mr.  Der- 
mot said  gravely : 

"  You  have  something  to  tell  me,  Miss  Glyn — had  we  not 
better  have  a  light  ?  " 

"  Yes — no — as  you  please,"  replied  Miss  Glyn,  in  a  slightly 
troubled  voice.     "  Sybil,  ring  for  lights,  if  you  please  ? " 

Sybil  rang,  and  left  the  room.  She  went  out  into  the  gar- 
den, and  sat  on  a  bench  outside,  whilst  the  servant  came  up  and 
placed  a  lamp  on  the  table. 

"  You  have  something  to  tell  me,"  again  said  Mr.  Dermot. 

lie  no  longer  leaned  back  in  the  arm-chair,  but  sat  upright, 
pale,  grave,  and  collected.  Miss  Glyn  was,  on  the  contrary, 
much  agitated. 


sybil's  second  love.  373 

"  Mr.  Derraot,"  she  said  at  length,  "  I  am  not  a  woman  of 
many  words ;  I  must  now  speak  abruptly  and  briefly.  I  have 
received  an  anonymous  letter  concerning  you.  Here  it  is. 
Are  its  statements  false  or  true?" 

She  handed  him  an  open  letter ;  Mr.  Dermot  took  it  calmly, 
and  in  a  clear  and  distinct  voice  he  read  aloud : 

"  The  Mr.  Dermot  who  is  now  lying  ill  at  Miss  Glyn's  house, 
figured  last  July  under  circumstances  of  the  strongest  suspicion, 
in  the  coroner's  inquest,  which  was  held  at  Moonagh,  Ireland, 
over  the  remains  of  Mr.  Smith. 

"  Mr.  Smith  was  burned  to  death  on  the  seventh  of  July,  in 
Mr.  Dermot's  house.  Mr.  Dermot  and  Mr.  Smith  had  a  violent 
quarrel  half  an  hour  before  the  fire  was  discovered. 

"  Mr.  Dermot's  house  was  insured  a  week  before  Mr.  Smith's 
accidental  death. 

"The  coroner's  comment  was,  that  the  case  was  one  of 
strong  suspicion;  but  the  jury,  according  to  his  directions, 
returned  an  open  verdict." 

Mr.  Dermot  closed  the  letter,  and  returned  it  back  to  Miss 
Glyn.     He  was  very  pale,  but  he  was  also  very  calm. 

■  "  Mr.  Dermot,"  impetuously  cried  Miss  Glyn,  "  tell  me  you 
are  not  that  man — I  mean  that  Mr.  Dermot." 

"  I  am  he,"  he  answered  composedly. 

"  And  Mr.  Smith  was  burned  to  death  ?  " 

"  He  was." 

"  in  your  house  ? — after  he  and  you  had  quarrelled  ? " 

"  It  was  in  my  house  ;  but  Ave  did  not  quarrel — Mr.  Smith 
was  loud  and  noisy,  but  there  was  no  quarrel." 

"  And  you  had  insured  your  house  a  week  before  ? " 

"  Yes — just  so  ;  a  week  before,  very  fortunately,  for  it  was 
valuable." 

He  spoke  very  composedly. 

Miss  Glyn  looked  perplexed. 

"  Then  you  were  not  suspected,"  she  said  ;  "  that  is  all  in- 
vention about  the  coroner's  comment  and  all  that?  " 

In  a  moment  Mr.  Dermot's  face  was  in  a  flame.  His  eyes 
flashed,  his  lips  quivered,  his  voice  lost  its  composure. 

"  The  coroner  was  my  personal  enemy,"  he  said  ;  "  he  haled 
me,  and  he  made  that  hate  good  that  day,  Miss  Glyn." 

Trouble  appeared  in  Miss  Glyn's  face. 


374  sybil's  second  love. 

"  God  help  us  ! "  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  on  her  lap  ; 
"  are  you  then  a  disgraced  man,  Mr.  Dermot  ? " 

Mr.  Dermot  looked  at  her  with  ill-subdued  resentment. 
She  could  say  it — she  could  dare  to  say  it !  She  could  taunt 
him  with  his  shame  by  that  insolent  question. 

"  But  of  course  you  are,"  resumed  the  pitiless  woman ;  "  and 
that  was  why  you  came  to  Saint  Vincent  as  Mr.  Kennedy's 
brother — that  was  why  your  name  was  suppressed — God  help 
us  !  I  say  again." 

Mr.  Dermot  looked  at  her.  The  veins  in  his  forehead 
swelled,  his  eyes  flashed,  anger  trembled  on  his  lip,  and  he  said 
not  one  word. 

"  I  pity  you,"  resumed  Miss  Glyn  ;  "  but  I  can  do  no  more 
— in  justice  to  my  niece,  I  must  tell  her  father  this." 

"  He  knows  it,"  sharply  said  Mr.  Dermot. 

"  And  knowing  it,  he  gives  you  his  daughter  ? " 

"  He  does." 

He  spoke  in  a  dry,  hard  voice. 

"  But  Sybil  does  not  know  it,"  indignantly  said  Miss  Glyn  ; 
"  and  she  shall,  sir — she  shall !     Sybil,  where  ai-e  you  ? " 

Her  voice  was  loud — louder  than  was  needed.  Sybil,  who 
sat  in  the  garden  outside,  had  heard  every  word ;  and  now 
opening  the  glass  door,  entered  the  room  pale  as  death,  but 
very  calm. 

"  You  need  tell  me  nothing,  aunt,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  ; 
"  T  heard  you  both — I  know  it  all — besides,  I  had  long  guessed 
it." 

They  both  looked  at  her,  not  knowing  how  to  construe  her 
looks  and  her  bearing.  She  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  enlighten 
them.  She  stood  between  them,  pale  and  still,  in  a  mute  sor- 
row, that  silenced  them  both.     Mr.  Dermot  spoke  first. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  going  up  to  her,  and  speaking  very  gently, 
"  I  need  not  tell  you  I  am  guiltless ;  but  for  all  that  you  are 
free,  free  as  air." 

"  Free  !  "  she  said,  "  free  ! "  And  she  twined  her  armi 
around  his  neck,  and  clung  to  him  as  never  she  had  clung  be- 
fore. 

"  Sybil,  you  will  repent  this,"  indignantly  said  her  aunt. 

"  Never  ! "  cried  Sybil.  "  Mr.  Dermot  is  not  changed  be- 
cause he  is  slandered,  and  I  will  believe  in  him  till  I  die ! — till  I 
die  f" 

He  looked  down  at  her  raised  face  with  mingled  tendernesi 


sybil's  second  love.  375 

and  reverence.  This  did  not  seem  to  him  his  little  childish 
Sybil,  whom  he  kissed  and  caressed  with  a  future  liLsband's  fond- 
ness. The  faith  that  burned  in  those  dark  eyes  of  hers  was  caught 
from  no  earthly  flame.  It  was  kindled  in  heaven,  and  now 
gave  her  young  face  something  of  sublime.  Thus  Agnes,  thus 
Cecilia,  the  virgin  martyrs,  might  have  looked  when  they  con- 
fessed their  God,  and  smiled  at  the  heathen.  For  surely  that 
was  never  pure  human  love,  to  which  the  hour  of  trial  gives  not 
a  touch  of  heaven. 

"  I  have  wronged  you,"  he  said,  "  I  have  wronged  you.  I 
should  have  told  you  this ;  but  I  was  blind  and  selfish.  I 
thought  it  would  not  be  known,  or  that  if  it  were,  men  would 
be  generous  enough  to  hold  me  guiltless.  Poor  little  Sybil !  it 
was  shameful  to  win  your  affection,  knowing  myself  a  disgraced 
wretch,  whom  a  woman  must  Mush  to  belong  to  ! " 

The  truth  rose  from  Syml's  heart  to  her  lips. 

"You  know  you  need  not  blame  yourself  for  that,"  she  said. 
"  I  liked  you  long  before  you  liked  me.  I  gave  myself  long 
before  you  cared  for  me.  Oh  !  Mr.  Dermot,  you  know  very 
well  that  I  was  yours  all  along,  and  you  had  but  to  take  me  !  " 

She  spoke  with  a  proud  humility  that  seemed  to  avenge  him 
for  all  the  scorns  of  Fortune.  He  looked  from  her  to  Miss  Glyn, 
and  smiled  with  serene  defiance. 

"  You  see  her — you  hear  her  !  "  he  said.  "  The  strength 
of  innocence  itself  is  around  her ;  an  angel  might  as  soon  love 
Lucifer  as  this  girl  a  murderer.  I  cannot  give  you  an  unstained 
name,  Sybil,  but  my  hand  is  as  guiltless  of  that  man's  blood  as 
this,"  he  added,  raising  hers  to  his  lips. 

Miss  Glyn  seemed  much  staggered. 

"  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said,  "  you  may  be  innocent.  I  only 
say  that  appearances  are  very  strong  against  you  ;  but  innocent 
or  guilty,  what  right  had  you  to  bind  your  lot  to  that  child's  ? " 

"None,"  he  sorrowfully  replied.  "  None,  but  she  was  will- 
ing, and  her  father  was  willing,  too,  and  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation.  For  you  see,  Miss  Glyn,  she  has  all  that  man  can 
well  desire :  youth,  a  true  heart,  and  more  than  the  common 
share  of  beauty ;  and  to  crown  all,  she  loved  me,  and  I  saw 
it,  and  loved  her  ten  times  more  for  that  love  than  for  all 
the  rest.  Another  might  have  prized  it  less ;  but  Fortune 
had  not  spoiled  me." 

"  But,  Mr.  Dermot,  you  cannot  marry  her  now,"  said  Miss 
Glyn,  "  you  cannot." 


376  sybil's  second  love. 

"Oh  yes,  I  can,"  lie  replied,  recklessly.  "I  do  not  expect 
to  live  very  long.  If  T  die  I  will  leave  Sybil  money  enougli  to 
wipe  away  the  shame  of  my  name. ;  and  if  I  live,"  he  added, 
with  some  emotion,  "this  little  girl  loves  me  well  enough  to 
forgive  me  the  sin." 

He  kissed  away  Sybil's  silent  tears ;  then  gently  putting 
her  by,  he  turned  to  Miss  Glyn,  and  said,  calmly  : 

"  Good-by,  Miss  Glyn.  I  forgive  you — I  suppose  I  must, 
but  it  goes  against  me  to  say  it.  You  have  been  the  world  to 
me,  and  though  I  never  cared  much  for  its  good  word,  I  find  I 
can  resent,  even  though  I  scorn  its  contumely.  I  do  not  ask 
that  you  should  keep  my  secret.  The  hand  that  sent  you  that 
letter  has  many  more  such  to  send,  and  will  not  spare  me.  It 
tried  to  blast  the  fair  name  of  a  dying  man,  and  thus  sufficient- 
ly proclaimed  its  own  cowardice  and  baseness.  That  hand  has 
pressed  mine  once,  and  been  very  dear,  so  dear  that  if  Heaven 
had  not  sent  me  unhoped-for  compensation,  I  could  loathe  all 
human  kind  for  its  sake.  I  know  its  handiwork,  and  expect  no 
mercy  ;  but  now  the  day  has  come  when  I,  too,  shall  show 
none." 

Sybil  gazed  at  him  in  some  fear.  He  looked  stem  and 
pitiless,  and  there  was  hate  in  his  eye.  She  went  up  to  him, 
and  taking  his  arm,  led  him  out  into  the  garden. 

"  Do  not,"  she  entreated  ;  "  let  us  fly  out  of  the  world  some- 
where, Mr.  Dermot,  but  do  not  retaliate — let  her  be." 

"  Sybil,  I  am  uot  revenge — I  am  justice.  I  feel  bound  to 
overtake  and  punish  her  treason — as  to  flying  out  of  the  world 
with  you,  my  darling,  I  would,  if  I  had  the  life  and  strength  of 
a  month  back — but  not  as  I  am  now.  There  is  but  one  world 
for  me  to  go  to,  child,  and  that's  the  next ;  and  the  day  on  which 
I  take  that  journey  will  be  a  bright  day  in  Mrs.  Kennedy's  his- 
tory. But  with  me  does  not  end  her  chastisement.  Saint  Vin- 
cent and  all  in  and  about  it  is  mine,  and  shall  be  yours.  She 
thought  to  turn  mo  out  of  your  father's  house,  and  if  she  stays 
in  it  she  shall  live  on  your  bounty.  Your  father  is  poor,  Sybil, 
very  poor — his  last  store  went  in  the  furniture  and  the  jewels ; 
and  as  you  love  me,  I  charge  you  not  to  feed  that  woman's 
sensual  vanity  with  money  of  mine.  Throw  it  into  the  sea, 
Sybil,  before  you  do  that.  Marry  again,  be  happy  with  an- 
other husband,  let  your  children  and  his  be  enriched  with  my 
wealth.  I  grudge  you  nothing,  my  darling — nothing;  but  be- 
tween me  and  the  treacherous  woman  who   has  stabbed  my 


sybil's  second  love.  377 

honor  is  mortal  enmity.     Do  not  answer  me — I  must  see  your 
father  to-night — good-by." 

He  kissed  her  in  the  darkness,  and  walked  away  at  a  quick 
pace  ;  and  Sybil  stood  listening  to  his  retreating  footsteps  like 
one  entranced. 


-♦♦•♦- 


CHATTER    LII. 

Sleep  did  not  come  near  Miss  Glyn  that  night.  Mr.  Der- 
mot's  manner  all  but  convinced  her  of  his  innocence;  but  inno- 
cent or  guilty,  she  resolved  that  he  should  not  marry  her  niece. 
Sybil's  romantic  generosity  she  derided  as  utterly  foolish. 

"  It  will  not  stand  the  test  of  time,"  she  thought.  "  Sybil 
is  in  love  now,  but  later,  when  she  finds  herself  stung  at  every 
turn  by  her  husband's  shame,  she  will  repent  her  folly,  and  up- 
braid us  all  for  having  allowed  her  to  commit  it." 

That  sin  Miss  Glyn  resolved  to  avoid  by  seeking  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy the  very  next  morning,  and  informing  him  that  no  con- 
sideration should  make  her  tolerate  Sybil's  marriage  with  Mr. 
Dermot. 

Miss  Glyn  was  prompt  to  decide,  and  no  less  prompt  to  act. 
She  went  off  on  her  errand  at  once ;  but  early  though  she  was, 
Mr.  Kennedy  was  out.  Mrs.  Kennedy,  though  not  asked  for, 
came  down  to  receive  her  visitor.  Her  manner  had  a  mixture 
of  courtesy  and  concern  that  struck  Miss  Glyn. 

"  I  trust,  I  hope  Mr.  Dermot  has  not  had  a  relapse  ? "  she 
said  anxiously. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  dryly  answered  Miss  Glyn.  "  Do  you 
know,  Mrs.  Kennedy,  if  your  husband  will  remain  out  long  ?  " 

"  I  can  form  no  idea,  Miss  Glyn ;  he  may  stay  out  the  whole 
day,  or  be  home  in  five  minutes.  And,  pray,  how  is  poor  Mr. 
Dermot  this  morning?" 

"  Mr.  Dermot  left  me  last  night." 

Mrs.  Kennedy's  surprise  was  unbounded. 

Last  night !  How  sudden  !  Bat  surely  he  had  not  come 
back  to  Saint  Vincent ;  and  Sybil,  what  about  poor,  dear  Sybil '( 
Mrs.  Kennedy  supposed  they  would  soon  have  her  back  too  ! 

Miss  Glyn  gave  her  a  cold,  mistrustful  look,  and  rose. 

"  I  shall  call  again,"  she  said  shortly  ;  and,  without  deigning 
to  answer  Mrs.  Kennedy,  she  left.     She  did  not  go  home.     She 


378  SYBIL'S    SECOISTD   LOVE. 

went  on  to  Saint  Vincent,  where  she  had  business,  and  on  her 
return  she  passed  by  tbe  abbey,  and  asked  if  Mr.  Kennedy  bad 
come  back.  Narcisse  replied  in  the  negative,  and  being  of  a 
communicative  turn,  he  graciously  added, 

"Monsieur  Kennedy  and  Monsieur  Dermot  went  out  to- 
gether this  morning." 

"  Tben  Monsieur  Dermot  is  here?  "  said  Miss  Glyn. 

"Oh!  yes.  Monsieur  Dermot  arrived  last  night;  and  Mad- 
ame Kennedy  laughed,  and  said  he  looked  just  like  a  ghost." 

Miss  Glyn  turned  away  grimly,  and  smiled  in  some  scorn. 

"  Did  Miss  Cains  think  to  impose  upon  me  ?  "  sbe  thought 
as  she  entered  her  chaise  and  drove  back  to  her  own  home. 
"  Sbe  ought  to  know  it  is  rather  hard  to  do  that." 

Miss  "Glyn  found  Sybil  in  the  garden,  leaning  over  the  gate, 
and  looking  out  wistfully  across  the  road  over  tbe  broad  moor. 
Her  face  was  flushed,  and  her  dark  eyes  had  a  full  intent  look, 
with  wbich  her  aunt  was  struck.  It  did  not  seem  to  Miss  Glyn 
that  Sybil  was  fretting,  and  yet  something  ailed  her. 

"  Sybil,  wbat  is  it  ? "  sbe  asked. 

"  Nothing,  aunt,"  replied  Sybil  with  a  little  start. 

"  Sybil,  I  pity  you — I  even  pity  him  ;  but  you  must  submit 
to  your  fate — a  bard  one,  I  confess  it  ;  still,  as  I  say,  you  must 
submit." 

Sybil  smiled  wistfully. 

"  I  mean  to  do  so,  aunt,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  mak- 
ing way  for  Miss  Glyn  to  pass ;  she  followed  her  in. 

She  was  very  quiet,  though  very  grave,  for  the  whole  of  that 
day.  Neither  her  face  nor  her  manner  gave  any  clue  to  her  feel- 
ings. Sbe  seemed  to  live  within  herself,  "  like  a  little  snail  within 
its  shell,"  thought  Miss  Glyn,  and  looked  as  if  sbe  meant  to  remain 
there  silent  and  close  till  better  times  should  come.  Apathy 
marked  her  bearing;  she  sewed  assiduously,  and  never  spoke. 
She  did  not  even  seem  to  fret ;  but  looked  like  one  whose 
bark  drifts  down  a  swift  stream,  and  who  is  powerless  to 
arrest  its  course. 

Early  the  next  morning,  Miss  Glyn  went  off  to  Saint  Yin- 
cent  again ;  but  early  though  she  was,  Mr.  Kennedy  was  out 
when  she  reached  the  abbey.  But  this  time,  however,  he  bad 
left  word  that  he  would  be  home  within  an  hour  ;  and  as  the 
day  was  fine,  Miss  Glyn  said  sbe  would  take  a  turn  in  the  gar- 
den and  wait  there.  From  the  garden  she  soon  wandered  to 
tbe  grounds.     A  bright  sun  lit  the  avenues  of  trees,  and  the 


sybil's  second  love.  379 

blue  sea  sparkled  in  the  distance.  It  was  a  lovely  morning, 
both  fresh  and  fragrant  and  redolent  with  summer ;  but  Miss 
Glyn  did  not  feel  happy.  Her  errand  was  no  pleasant  one. 
She  had  taken  a  strong  liking  to  Mr.  Dermot  during  his  illness, 
and  now  that  liking  came  uppermost,  spite  all  her  efforts  to  curb 
it ;  and  if  it  did  not  make  her  repent  her  resolve,  it  rendered 
its  fulfilment  rather  painful. 

"  I  wish  those  birds  would  not  chatter  so  much,"  impa- 
tiently thought  Miss  Glyn,  looking  up  at  a'  tree  in  whose  boughs 
a  happy  pair  were  hidden ;  "  but  of  course  they  know  no  bet- 
ter, little  senseless  wretches !  " 

As  she  came  to  this  harsh  conclusion,  Miss  Glyn  was  sud- 
denly aware  of  Mr.  Kennedy  and  Mr.  Dermot,  who  were 
coming  home  through  the  grounds,  and  now  stood  within  a 
few  paces  of  her.  She  was  much  struck  by  their  appearance. 
Mr.  Kennedy's  eye  was  dull,  and  his  face  was  haggard. 

"  He  did  not  sleep  last  night,"  thought  Miss  Glyn. 

Mr.  Dermot,  on  the  contrary,  looked  far  better  and  stronger 
than  when  he  had  left  Miss  Glyn's  two  days  before.  Perhaps 
he,  too,  had  not  slept,  but  wakefulness  had  left  him  all  the 
power  and  energy  of  life.  He  bowed  formally  to  Miss  Glyn, 
and  looked  her  firmly  in  the  face  with  his  luminous  gray 
eyes. 

"  Mr.  Dermot  is  not  going  to  die  just  yet,"  thought  Miss 
Glyn,  and  the  conviction  strengthened  her  in  her  purpose. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said,  looking  hard  at  him,  "  have 
I  news  to  give,  or  have  you  ? " 

"Mr.  Dermot  has  spoken  to  me,"  replied  Mr.  Kennedy, 
without  looking  at  her. 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Miss  Glyn  said, 

"  And  what  about  Sybil  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  sullenly  answered  Mr.  Kennedy. 

"  Nothing  !  Do  you  mean  that  she  is  to  marry  Mr.  Dermot 
all  the  same? " 

This  time  Mr.  Kennedy  did  not  reply.  Miss  Glyn  waxed 
both  wroth  and  indignant. 

"And  so,"  she  said,  with  a  derisive  smile,  "you  give  your 
daughter  to  a  disgraced  man,  and  you  do  it  with  your  eyes 
open — is  it  for  his  money,  Mr.  Kennedy  ?  Never  mind  answer- 
ing," she  added,  regardless  of  Mr.  Kennedy's  angry  look,  and 
Mr.  Dermot' s  indignant  flush.  "All  I  sav  is  this,  Sybil  shall 
not  be  sacrificed !  I  will  cry  it  out  in  the  streets  before  I  al- 
low it." 


380  sybil's  second  love. 

"  Miss  Glyn,  I  am  a  patient  man,"  replied  Mr.  Kennedy, 
with  a  light  in  his  eye,  "  hut  I  will  allow  no  interference  in  my 
domestic  affairs." 

"  And  I  will  not  allow  that  child  to  be  sold,"  obstinately  said 
Miss  Glyn;  "take  a  step  in  this  marriage,  and  I  will  rouse  all 
Saint  Vincent  against  you  both." 

Mr.  Dermot  looked  her  firmly  in  the  face. 
"  Sybil  and  I  were  married  this  morning,"  he  said. 
Miss  Glyn  stared,  her  mouth  opened,  her  arms  fell,  then  a 
purple  flush  passed  across  her  face ;  for  a  moment  she  was  al- 
most speechless,  and  looked  almost  senseless.     When  she  re- 
covered, she  said  with  deep  scorn, 

"  God  forgive  you  both — I  cannot.  You  have  sold  her," 
she  said  to  Mr"  Kennedy,  "  and  you  have  bought  her,"  she  added, 
looking  at  Mr.  Dermot,  "  and  you  shall  both  answer  for  it  on 
the  great  judgment-day,"  she  exclaimed,  bursting  into  tears. 
"  If  there  be  justice  above,  you  shall  answer  for  it !  " 

Mr.  Kennedy  eyed  her  coldly,  and  said  not  one  word ;  but 
Mr.  Dermot's  pale' face  flushed  with  pain.  He  walked  to  and 
fro  in  the  path,  and  coming  back  to  the  bench  on  which  Miss 
Glyn  sat,  he  stopped  before  her,  and  said  with  much  emotion^ 
"  "  As  God  is  my  judge,  I  did  not  buy  this  young  girl  who  is 
now  my  wife.  As  He  knows  all  hearts,  I  thought  not  of  my- 
self, but  ©f  her  in  this  morning's  act.  I  love  her  much,  very 
much,  Miss  Glyn,  far  too  well  to  tie  her  lot  to  mine  if  I  could 
do  otherwise.  I  am  going  away  this  afternoon,  and  Sybil  is 
not  coming  with  me.  I  may  never  return,  though  she  need  not 
know  thatfpoor  child  !  and  in  that  case  she  will  be  a  rich  and 
young  widow.  If  I  live,  I  trust  that  my  love  for  her,  and  her 
love  for  me,  will  give  us  some  way  of  securing  happiness  be- 
yond the  reach  of  all  slander.  You  will  at  least  allow  me  to 
hope  that  she  will  find  in  me  a  more  tender  and  faithful  husband 
than  she  could  ever  have  had  in  the  Count  de  Renneville." 

"Mr.  Dermot,  I  pity  you,"  replied  Miss  Glyn;  "you  de- 
lude yourself  by  thinking  'it  was  needful  to  Sybil's  happiness 
that  she  should' marry  you.  You  are  not  going  to  die  just  to 
make  her  a  rich  widow.  Besides,  you  could  leave  her  every 
farthing  you  have  without  marrying  her.  No,  Mr.  Dermot,  the 
plain  truth  is,  you  are  fond  of  the  poor  girl,  and  as  she  is  fond 
of  you,  you  take  advantage  of  her  folly  to  get  her.  Sybil  will 
never  reproach  you,  but  she  will  repent  it  bitterly,  and  perhaps 
you  will  see  it,  and  have  to  bear  the  punishment  of  your  self- 
ishness." 


sybil's  second  love.  381 

Mr.  Dermot  could  have  answered  this,  for  lie  had  more  rea- 
sons for  marrying  Sybil  than  he  had  stated  to  Miss  Glyn ;  but 
he  did  not  choose  to  ertcr  into  further  justification. 

"  Think  what  you  please,"  he  said  recklessly ;  "  Sybil  is  my 
wife  now,  and  though  we  mean  to  keep  our  marriage  private,  if 
it  pleases  you  to  proclaim  it,  I  for  one  am  not  ashamed  of  what 
I  have  done  this  morning." 

"I  shall  not  betray  you,"  said  Miss  Glyn,  coldly;  "but 
where  is  Sybil  ? " 

"  You  will  find  her  in  your  house  when  you  go  back,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Kennedy. 

Miss  Glyn  shook  her  head. 

"  Mr.  Dermot's  wife  ought  to  have  a  house  of  her  own,"  she 
said  ironically ;  "  at  all  events,  I  decline  to  receive  her.  She 
must  come  here,  or  go  with  her  husband." 

"  She  shall  come  here,"  sullenly  said  Mr.  Kennedy. 

"  May  I  ask  if  Mrs.  Kennedy  knows  this  1  "  inquired  Miss 
Glyn,  with  great  stateliness. 

"  No,"  was  Mr.  Kennedy's  sharp  reply. 

"Then  my  opinion  is,  that  you  cannot,  without  wronging 
Mrs.  Kennedy,  bring  Mrs.  Dermot  into  her  house,"  said  Miss 
Glyn  gravely ;  "  and,  indeed,  I  shall  feel  it  my  duty — " 

"  Nonsense !  "  interrupted  Mr.  Kennedy,  losing  his  temper ; 
"  you  meddle  in  what  you  know  nothing  of,  Miss  Glyn.  This 
house  is  not  Mrs.  Kennedy's.  It  is  Mr.  Dermot's.  His  wife, 
not  mine,  is  the  mistress  of  it ;  and  you  are  sitting  iu  Mr.  Der- 
mot's grounds,  and  on  Mr.  Dermot's  bench." 

Miss  Glyn  rose,  pale  with  anger. 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,  shall  I  tell  you  what  I  think  of  all  this  ? " 
she  cried,  in  her  indiguation ;  "  I  think  it  is  you,  and  not  Mr. 
Dermot,  who  killed  Mr.  Smith  !  " 

We  often  speak,  scarcely  knowing  what  we  say,  and  after  we 
have  spoken,  we  learn  by  their  effect  that  our  words  were  keen 
arrows  with  a  sure  aim.  Miss  Glyn  remained  aghast  as  she  saw 
how  fell  a  speech  she  had  uttered.  Mr.  Kennedy's  eyes  rolled 
wildly,  drops  of  perspiration  stood  thick  on  his  brow,  terror  avis 
in  his  whole  aspect.     Mr.  Dermot's  voice  recalled  him  to  himself. 

"  Scorn  it,"  said  his  frieud,  "  scorn  it,  James." 

Mr.  Kennedy  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  tried  to  laugh. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Glyn,"  he  said,  "thank  you." 

And  Miss  Glyn  was  too  much  shocked  to  speak,  for  in  her 
heart  she  thought,  "It  is  true  he  killed  him,  and  he  is  iu  tbat 
man's  power." 


382  sybil's  second  love. 

"I  wash  my  Lands  of  it  all,"  she  said,  rising;  "I  could 
admire  you,  Mr.  Dermot,  if  you  had  not  paid  yourself  for 
your  silence ;  and  you,  Mr.  Kennedy,  could  pity,  if  you  had 
been  more  generous.  As  it  is,  take  care  of  yourself.  I  am 
much  mistaken  if  the  writer  of  the  letter  I  received  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday  is  not  to  be  found  within  a  mile  of  this  spot." 

"  Miss  Glyn,  what  is  your  meaning  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Kennedy, 
turning  livid.     "  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  tp.x  me  with  it?  " 

"  You  !  "  And  Miss  Glyn  stared  at  him.  "  You  !  Don't 
be  absurd,  Mr.  Kennedy,  you  know  my  meaning  very  well." 

She  walked  away  without  further  adieu,  and  Mr.  Kennedy 
looked  at  Mr.  Dermot  as  if  to  say,  "  Deny  it — say  it  is  false — 
deny  it ! " 

But  Mr.  Dermot  was  mute,  and  Mr.  Kennedy  hung  his  head 
and  bit  his  lip,  for  he  too  believed  it. 


CHAPTER     L  1 1 1 . 

Sybil  was  sitting  in  her  room  at  her  aunt's  house,  still 
amazed  at  the  morning's  work.  The  suddenness  of  this  mar- 
nage  took  from  its  joy.  Nor  could  she  forget  her  father's  face, 
still  less  Mr.  Dermot's.  She  had  yielded  to  their  joint  wishes, 
but  her  heart  felt  heavy  and  sad.  Oh  !  happy  were  the  brides 
who  were  wedded  in  the  face  of  all,  whom  the  joy  of  friends, 
and  their  cordial  good-will  welcomed  on  the  threshold  of  the 
new  life.     Ay  !  truly  happy  were  they  ! " 

A  knock  at  her  door  disturbed  Sybil's  thoughts.  She  took 
off  her  ring,  which  she  had  put  on,  and  opened  it.  She  saw 
her  aunt's  servant-maid,  who  handed  her  a  slip  of  paper,  on 
which  Mr.  Dermot  had  written,  in  English,  "  Come  to  me." 

"  He  was  waiting  at  the  gate,"  said  the  girl.  Sybil's  eyes 
sparkled  with  joy.  She  did  not  know  why  he  wanted  her,  but 
he  bade  her  come,  and  it  was  happiness  to  obey  him,  on  this 
the  first  day  of  their  wedded  life.  She  ran  out  bareheaded  in 
the  sun,  and  found  him  standing  outside  the  limits  of  Miss 
Glyn's  abode.  She  reached  him  breathless,  and  gave  him  a 
quick,  anxious  look. 

"  You  have  not  put  on  your  hat  and  cloak,"  he  said,  sur- 
prised. 


sybil's  second  love.  3S3 

"No.  Did  you  come  to  take  me  away?"  she  cried,  joy- 
fully. 

"  I  did." 

"For  good?" 

"  For  good,  as  you  say,  Sybil." 

He  spoke  sadiy,  but  in  her  joy  Sybil  did  not  heed  that. 
She  thought  they  were  going  away  together  somewhere — out 
of  the  world,  as  she  called  it — and  a  weight  of  care  left  her 
with  that  thought.  She  flew  back  to  the  house,  and  came  back 
to  him  in  a  few  minutes.     He  took  her  arm  and  led  her  away. 

"  Shall  I  leave  a  message  for  my  aunt  ? "  asked  Sybil,  stand- 
ing still. 

"  )Tou  need  not ;  she  knows  we  are  married." 

This  was  another  relief.  Sybil  could  not  bear  disguise  or 
secrecy.  But  there  was  something  in  Mr.  Dermot's  face  that 
soon  checked  her  joy.  She  had  noticed  a  clouded  happiness 
about  him  when  they  were  married  that  morning,  but  now  it 
seemed  to  Sybil  that  the  happiness  was  all  gone,  and  that  the 
cloud  alone  remained.  She  did  not  dare  to  ask  where  thev 
were  going.  She  walked  by  his  side,  her  arm  in  his,  and  she 
felt  sad  and  troubled. 

A  path  led  to  the  sea;  this  Mr.  Dermot  took.  "When  they 
were  both  on  the  shore,  within  the  shadow  of  the  cliffs,  he  asked 
Sybil  if  she  would  sit  or  walk.  Sybil  felt  faint,  and  she  pre- 
ferred sitting.  He  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  looking  at  her 
sadly,  spoke. 

"  Heaven  is  my  witness,  Sybil,  that  when  I  first  thought  of 
asking  you  to  become  my  wife,  I  never  contemplated  all  this. 
I  did  not  think  that  I  should  marry  you  in  secret,  and  that  I 
could  not  openly  give  you  a  home  on  your  wedding-day.  And 
what  a  wedding-day  !  If  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  I  must  do  so 
in  such  a  wild  place  as  this,  where  the  sea-mew,  who  screams 
around  us,  will  never  tell  it.  Poor  little  Sybil,  the  shadow  of 
wrong  never  came  near  you,  and  just  now  I  saw  you  give  a  start 
and  a  frightened  look,  lest  any  one  should  come  and  find  you 
sitting  here  with  your  husband.  God  forgive  me,  Sybil !  I 
half  fear  that  your  aunt's  bitter  reproaches  were  justified,  and 
that  I  thought  of  myself,  and  not  of  you,  this  morning." 

"  And  why  should  you  not?"  asked  Sybil,  a  little  indignant- 
ly— "  why  should  you  marry  me  if  I  cannot  give  you  some  hap- 
piness % — though 'tis  not  much,  I  dare  say,  or  you  would  not 
speak  so." 


3S-A  sybil's  second  love. 

Tears  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  uttered  these  words. 

"  Some  happiness !  "  he  repeated — "  some  happiness  !  Oh  ! 
Sybil,  if  I  had  only  married  you  in  the  face  of  the  world,  and 
not  by  stealth — if  I  could  only  say  to  every  one,  '  This  is  my 
wife,'  and  take  you  away  somewhere — " 

"  Do,"  interrupted  Sybil — "  do,  Mr.  Dermot,  take  me  away  ; 
I  do  not  care  where — only  take  me !  " 

"  I  will,"  he  replied,  taking  her  in  his  arms,  and  forgetting 
his  hard  lot  in  the  sweetness  of  that  fond  entreaty — "  I  will,  my 
darling,"  and  for  a  moment  he  looked  down  at  her,  a  proud 
and  happy  husband. 

"  And  where  are  we  going?"  softly  whispered  Sybil. 

The  troubled  look  came  back  at  once  to  Mr.  Dermot's  face. 
Alas !  he  was  no  blest  lover  bearing  his  young  bride  away  to 
some  calm  retreat.  He  was  a  hunted  man,  who  had  married  the 
girl  he  loved — not  to  have  her,  but  to  save  her  from  a  worse  lot. 
He  had  made  her  his  wife,  not  to  spend  happy  days  with  her, 
but  to  take  her  out  of  her  father's  hands,  and  give  her  a  safe  ref- 
uge beyond  the  reach  of  Blanche  Cains.  Whatever  Miss  Glyn 
might  think,  Mr.  Dermot  had  no  illusions.  He  knew  that  if 
his  days  were  numbered,  as  he  thought,  Sybil  was  too  young 
not  to  marry  again.  She  would  marry,  and,  of  course,  she 
would  love.  The  wealth  wdnch  he  had  amassed  with  painful 
toil,  and  was  now  leaving  her,  would  enrich  a  happier  man. 

Children,  not  of  his  blood,  would  play  in  these  rooms  where 
young  Sybil  had  once  called  him  Uncle  Edward,  and  given 
him  her  unsought  heart.  And  he  would  sleep  in  his  dishonored 
grave,  not  forgotten,  perhaps,  but  surely  never  mentioned ! 
These  were  bitter  thoughts  to  a  man  in  love,  who  had  been 
wedded  a  few  hours,  and  who,  calm  though  he  often  looked, 
felt  the  passionate  blood  of  youth  flowing  in  his  veins.  He 
gently  put  Sybil  by,  and  said,  very  sadly  : 

"  You  are  right  enough,  Sybil ;  you  can  give  me  no  happi- 
ness— none,  for  to  have  you  so  is  very  bitter ;  but  for  all  that, 
you  will  never  know  how  much  I  have  loved  you." 

The  passionate  earnestness  of  his  look,  the  still  more  pas- 
sionate regret  of  his  voice,  stirred  the  depths  of  Sybil's  heart. 

"God  himself  joined  us  this  morning,"  she  said — "let  us 
hold  fast  by  that,  and  let  the  world  go  by." 

"  I  cannot — I  must  not — I  did  not  marry  you  for  that,"  he 
replied,  in  a  broken  voice;  "  pride,  honor,  love — all  bid  me  give 
you  another  destiny,  my  darling.     Two   days  back  I  wanted 


sybil's  second  love.  385 

you  for  myself,  but  after  that  letter  I  should  not  dare  to  wish 
for  you  so.  It  may  be  that  some  selfish  hope  or  desire  was  in 
my  heart  this  morning ;  but  if  so,  it  is  not  too  late  to  atone  for 
either.  Do  not  look  at  me  so  reproachfully,  Sybil.  I  may  not 
always  be  generous — I  may  come  some  day  and  take  you  away, 
and  hide  you,  as  the  miser  hides  his  gold,  and  then  we  will  let 
the  world  go  by,  as  you  say." 

"Be  it  so,"  said  Sybil,  smiling,  undismayed  at  the  dreary 
prospect. 

"Yes,  Sybil,  be  it  so.  But  I  have  much  to  say — let  me 
speak.  Did  you  wonder,  Sybil,  that  when  we  parted  this 
morning,  I  let  your  father  take  you  to  Miss  Glyn's  ?  I  could 
not  help  it — I  had  much  to  do — I  had  my  will  to  make." 

Sybil  felt  sick  and  faint. 

"  Then  you  do  think,  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said — "  you  do 
think  that—" 

She  did  not  say  what,  but  he  knew  her  meaning,  and  was 
silent. 

"  God  alone  knows,"  he  said  at  length  ;  "  but  do  not  look  so 
woeful — above  all,  do  not  grudge  me  the  thought  that,  if  I  could 
do  nothing  else  for  you,  I  could  make  you  "rich.  Whether  I 
live  or  die,  you  are  a  rich  woman  now,  Sybil." 

"  Rich  ! — and  if  you  die ! — if  you  die,  Mr.  Dermot  ?" 

She  could  say  no  more. 

"  And  if  I  live,"  he  said,  gloomily — "  if  I  live,  scorned  and 
dishonored,  Sybil?" 

"  Mr.  Dermot,"  fervently  cried  Sybil,  for  she  had  not  yet 
learned  to  call  him  otherwise,  "  God  will  clear  you  yet." 

But  Mr.  Dermot  heard,  and  did  not  believe  her.  He  did 
not  think  that  Providence  always  justified  the  innocent  and  con- 
founded the  guilty.  If  he  was  silent,  was  Providence  bound  to 
speak  for  him  ?  There  was  iron  in  him,  as  he  had  once  told 
Sybil,  and  he  could  bear  his  lot ;  but  one  aspect  of  that  lot  re- 
volted him.  It  was  that  he  should  give  his  wife  a  disgraced 
name,  and  that  he  should  entail  that  inheritance  of  shame  on 
children  yet  unborn.  Passion  aud  Hope  had  conspired  to  lure 
him  on,  but  one  was  dead  now,  and  the  other,  though  strong, 
could  not  stifle  conscience  and  pride.  It  was  well  for  Sybil 
that  she  could  not  guess  with  what  bitterness  of  heart  he  had 
made  her  his.  She  could  not  guess  it,  but  still  something  she 
read  in  his  troubled  eye. 

"  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  implored,  "  let  us  go  away  and  never  be 
heard  of  more." 
17 


3  SO  sybil's  second  love. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  these  things  could  be,"  he  an- 
swered with  bitter  impatience ;  "  now,  what  spot  is  there  where 
slander  will  not  pursue  its  victim  ?  But  let  me  speak  on,  Sybil 
— I  have  much  to  say,  and  time  is  passing.  See  what  a  line  of 
foam  and  spray  these  receding  waves  have  made  on  the  shingle. 
They  are  rolling  away  from  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Sybil,  "and  my  short  happiness  with  them — 
f<  >r  you  are  going  to  leave  me,  Mr.  Derniot,  I  know  that." 

"I  must,  to  my  sorrow.  I  thought  to  leave  you  at  Miss 
Glyn's,  but  she  compelled  me  to  acknowledge  our  marriage  to 
her,  and  she  will  not  give  a  home  to  the  wife  of  a  disgraced 
man.  And  now,  Sybil,  mark  my  words.  If  I  die,  you  are,  by 
the  tenor  of  my  will,  placed  forever  beyond  the  reach  of  that 
woman." 

"  You  shall  not  die — you  must  not !  "  cried  Sybil.  "  And 
do  not  leave  me  here  or  anywhere.     Do  not  forsake  me." 

"  Forsake  you  !  Why,  every  thought  I  have  is  watchfulness 
or  tenderness  for  you  !" 

"  Then  watch  over  me  yourself.  If  I  gave  you  that  right 
and  that  duty  this  morning,  I  gave  it  to  none  other.  You 
told  me  I  was  your  treasure— ^deal  with  me  as  the  miser  deals 
with  his  gold,  Mr.  Dermot." 

"I  cannot — I  must  not;  not  yet  at  least,  my  darling.  I 
have  placed  you  beyond  the  reach  of  that  woman,  who  would 
barter  or  betray  you.  I  have  made  you  rich,  and  the  world 
which  would  not  forgive  my  wife  will  be  very  lenient  to  my 
widow — " 

"  Then  you  married  me  for  pity  ? "  interrupted  Sybil,  pale 
as  death — "  you  married  me  because  you  think  you  will  die  ? " 

"  I  may  live,  Sybil — I  may  come  back  to  you  with  my  bur- 
den of  disgrace,  and  bid  you  share  it.  I  wonder  if  you  will 
think  or  say  that  I  married  vou  for  pity  when  that  day  comes  ? " 

"Then  you  will  come  back?"  she  said  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief— "  you  will  come  back?  " 

"  Did  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  I  thought  I  was  your  wife,  bound  to 
share  your  lot,  whatever  that  lot  might  be.  But  when  I  hear 
you  speak,  I  think  I  must  have  dreamed  that  we  were  married 
this  morning." 

She  spoke  with  sorrowful  calmness,  without  reproach,  but 
as  one  who  states  some  sad  fact  beyond  all  remedy. 

"  You  are  my  wife,"  he  said,  deeply  affected—"  my    wife, 


sybil's  second  love.  387 

honored  and  beloved,  and  whether  I  live  or  die  I  will  convince 
you  that  you  are  infinitely  dear  to  your  husband's  heart." 

"  I  believe  you — I  must  believe  you  !  "  she  exclaimed,  her 
tears  flowing  ;  "it  would  be  too  hard  to  think  otherwise,  for  Mr. 
Dcrmot  I  feel  sure  that  you  will  live — ay,  and  triumph  over 
your  enemies,"  she  added,  smiling  through  her  tears  ;  "  and  it 
would  be  too  bitter  to  think  myself  a  clog  upon  you  then." 

He  wiped  her  tears  away,  an.d  smiled  too.  The  happy  fu- 
ture her  words  called  up  made  him  half  forget  present  sorrow. 
Oh !  how  sweet  it  would  be  to  live  an  honored  man  in  that 
gray  old  abbey,  with  this  fond  and  true  young  wife  forever  by 
his  side  !  And  it  was  possible,  hope  whispered  ;  stranger  things 
have  come  to  pass.  Ever  since  Miss  Glyn  had  taxed  him  with 
his  shame,  he  had  felt  life  doubly  strong  within  him.  Strength, 
will,  purpose  had  returned.  Why  should  he  not  live  to  prevail 
over  fate,  and  sit  down  to  enjoy  the  prize  he  had  snatched  to- 
day ?  Ah !  what  a  close  that  would  be  to  the  long  and  bitter 
story  of  the  last  year  ! 

"Sybil,"  he  said  with  a  kindling  look,  "you  will  make  a 
true  wife.  I  came  here  dark  and  depressed ;  now  I  feel  as  if  I 
must  live  and  prevail  against  her.  Do  not  think,  however,"  he 
added  with  the  defiant  smile  she  knew  of  old,  "that  I  meant 
to  fly  like  a  coward  before  Mrs.  Kennedy.  If  I  go,  if  I  leave 
you,  if  I  keep  our  marriage  secret — it  is  to  defeat  her,  Sybil. 
She  sent  that  letter  to  Miss  Glyn,  to  prevent  me  from  having  you 
— let  her  think  that  she  has  prevailed  and  that  I  am  beaten,  else 
the  evil  spirit  which  is  within  her  will  know  no  bounds.  Let 
her  think  it,  I  say.  Your  father  and  I  have  set  a  snare  Avhich 
she  cannot  escape.  I  go  to  act  my  part,  but  I  would  not  go, 
without  securing  your  fate,  my  darling." 

"  Does  my  father  know  ? "  asked  Sybil. 

"  He  suspects  her — I  had  no  need  to  accuse  her.  Wretched 
woman  !  she  does  not  know  that  my  danger  is  his — that  we 
stand  and  fall  together.  And  he  would  rather  die  than  trust 
her.  In  that  he  does  well.  Have  no  faith  in  the  wicked.  They 
cannot  be  true." 

Sybil  turned  very  pale. 

"How  did  Mr.  Smith  die?"  she  whispered. 

"  Sybil,  I  do  not  know — no  more  than  you — but  I  cannot 
doubt  your  father." 

"Ah!  you  have  been  grand — you  have  been  generous'" 
she  cried. 


3S8  sybil's  second  love. 

"  No,"  he  interrupted  calmly  ;  "  but  when  suspicion  fell  on 
me,  I  threw  it  on  no  other.  I  did  that,  and  no  more.  Forget 
all  that,  Sybil.  Let  nothing  so  dark  or  so  dismal  be  mentioned 
between  us  to-day.  But  if  you  love  me,  if  you  love  your 
father,  be  prudent  till  I  come  back.  Then  I  can  defy  her,  I 
trust,  and  claim  you." 

"You  will — you  shall !  "  cried  Sybil  ardently  ;  "no  one  shall 
doubt  you,  and  she  shall  know  nothing  from  me;  and  we  shall 
be  very  happy  yet." 

He  heard  her  smiling,  and  he  surrendered  hirnself  to  the 
dear  illusion.  He  was  not  half  deceived,  and  all  the  time  he 
knew  that  the  wakening  was  at  hand,  but  he  felt  weary  of  fore- 
sight and  sacrifice.  He  let  Sybil  grow  eloquent  on  a  golden 
future,  which  to  her  seemed  as  certain  as  if  it  'lay  within  their 
grasp.  He  put  by  the  certainty  that  they  must  part  within  a 
few  hours,  and  he  enjoyed  the  present  time.  The  day  was  calm 
and  fair,  the  waves  danced  joyously  on  the  beach,  and  Sybil  sat 
by  his  side  and  often  turned  toward  him  a  radiant  face.  For 
if  he  could  not  deceive  himself,  Mr.  Derrnot  fully  cheated  her. 
He  needed  to  act  no  part  to  be  once  more  the  fond  lover  of  a 
few  days  back.  She  forgot  all  he  had  been  saying  as  we  forget 
baleful  dreams,  and  went  back  to  hope  and  joy  as  easily  as  a 
child.  Compassion  mingled  with  his  tenderness,  and  forbade 
him  to  renew  her  sorrow. 

"  Let  there  have  been  sunshine  on  her  wedding-day,"  he 
thought,  "  the  darkness  and  the  cloud  will  come  soon  enough." 

And  he,  too,  wore  a  happy  look,  and  seemed,  to  have  put  by 
all  care. 

And  if  fond  vows  and  tender  caresses  could  have  confirmed 
Sybil's  faith  in  the  future,  they  were  not  wanted  then.  But 
these  appeals  to  joys  he  might  never  possess  were  more  than 
Mr.  Derrnot  could  eudure.  It  unmanned  him  to  see  and  hear 
this  girl  whom  he  loved  so  fondly,  sitting  there  by  his  side,  re- 
calling their  pleasant  friendship,  and  trusting  to  their  married 
love  with  such  calm  faith. 

"  I  believe  you  had  better  go  in,"  he  said,  rising  and  trying 
to  seem  unconcerned.     "  See  how  far  the  tide  is  out !" 

"Are  you  not  coming  in  with  me?"  she  asked  doubtfully. 

"  I  am  going  in,  but  not  with  you." 

She  did  not  oppose  his  wish.  They  walked  on  together  for 
a  while,  and  then  he  left  her  still  smiling. 

"  But  I  shall  see  you  before  you  leave  Saint  Vincent? " 


sybil's  second  love.  380 

He  laughed  at  the  question,  and  walked  away  with  a  careless 
look.  Sybil  watched  him  till  he  vanished,  and  if  she  had  dared, 
she  would  have  called  him  back,  for  sudden  fear  had  come  over 
her  as  she  thought : 

"  If  I  should  never  see  him  again  !  " 

The  presentiment  was  not  all  unfulfilled.  That  day  Sybil 
saw  Mr.  Dermot  no  more,  and  when  she  rose  the  next  morning 
she  found  a  slip  of  paper  thrust  under  the  door.  "  Good-by  ! 
God  bless  you ! "  was  all  Mr.  Dermot  had  written,  and  he  was 
gone. 

"  Oh !  if  it  were  forever,"  thought  Sybil,  with  a  dea:lly 
chill  at  her  heart. 


CHAPTER    LIV. 

Never,  it  seemed  to  Sybil,  in  after-life,  was  there  so  dream- 
like a  period  of  her  existence  as  this,  for  never  wTas  the  real 
world  less,  and  that  other  wrorld  which  lies  within  the  compass 
of  our  own  thoughts,  more  to  her  than  it  was  then.  A  dark 
and  troubled  world  she  found  it.  One  peopled  with  spectres 
and  overshadowed  with  gloomy  forebodings.  Again  and  again 
she  went  over  the  tragic  close  of  Mr.  Smith's  history,  and  again 
and  again  her  heart  sickened  when  she  thought  of  the  dark 
shadow  which  that  sad  end  threw  over  her  husband's  life.  Oh  ! 
would  he  ever  stand  clear  once  more  in  his  honor  and  fair 
name? 

Would  he  win  bnck  the  love  of  that  haughty  princess,  Opin- 
ion, of  whom  he  had  once  spoken  to  Sybil?  She  feared  not. 
She  hoped,  and  she  despaired  daily,  and  daily,  too,  the  suspense 
and  anxiety  to  which  his  lengthened  absence  and  silence  sub- 
jected her,  told  upon  her.  She  grew  so  wan  and  pale  that 
every  one  saw  it,  and  every  one,  too,  thought  he  or  she  could 
guess  the  cause  of  Miss  Kennedy's  sorrow.  She  was  in  love 
with  Mr.  Dermot,  and  Mr.  Dermot  had  promised  to  marry  her, 
and  had  brokeu  his  promise  at  the  eleventh  hour,  and  so  Miss 
Kennedy  was  fretting.  Tims,  at  least,  the  friends  and  visitors 
of  Mrs.  Kennedy,  those  from  whom  she  received,  and  to  whom 
she  gave  parties  and  grand  dinners,  where  Sybil  sat  like  a  pale 
little  ghost,  compelled  to  appear  at  mortal  festivals — thus,  at 
least,  they  coustrued  the  sail  girl's  altered  looks. 


390  sybil's  second  love. 

Mr.  Dermot  had  been  gone  exactly  two  weeks,  when  Mrs 
Kennedy  gave  one  of  her  weekly  dinners.  Mrs.  Rouald  and  a 
few  more  of  her  set  were  the  guests.  Mrs.  Ronald  had  been 
silent  concerning  Sybil  till  then  ;  but  now  she  chose  to  speak. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Kennedy,"  she  said  to  her  in  her  most 
amiable  and  confidential  tone,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  Miss 
Kennedy?" 

Now  Mrs.  Ronald  put  the  question  in  a  manner  which  im- 
plied that  she  could  have  given  the  answer  if  she  chose.  Mrs. 
Kennedy  sighed  and  gave  Sybil,  who  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  pale  and  rather  stern,  a  look  full  of  tender,  motherly  com- 
passion. 

"  She  is  a  dear,  wayward  little  thing,"  she  replied  ;  "  and 
there  is  no  arguing  with  her,  Mrs.  Ronald.     None." 

"Mrs.  Kennedy,"  said  Mrs.  Ronald,  "I  married  a  widower 
with  grown-up  daughters,  who  were  all  dear,  good  girls,  but 
most  provoking — I  can  feel  for  you." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  smiled  sweetly,  and  no  more  was  said  on  that 
subject.  But  Mrs.  Mush  had  watched  them,  and  as  soon  as 
dinner  was  over,  she  coaxed  Sybil  out  into  the  garden. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  away  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?  "  interrupted  Sybil.  She  had  known  it,  but 
she  had  forgotten  it  too,  as  she  forgot  every  thing  now. 

"  Yes,  child,  to-morrow :  it  is  decreed  that  Saint  Vincent  is 
to  be  no  abiding-place  for  me — when  your  father  wants  me,  he 
asks  me ;  and  when  my  time  of  usefulness  is  out,  I  must  go." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Mush,  if  ever  I  have  Saint  Vincent,  you  shall 
come  to  it  and  stay  as  long  as  you  please,"  warmly  said 
Sybil. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  my  dear ;  but  Mrs.  Kennedy  has  a 
good  hold  of  Saint  Vincent,  and  isn't  going  to  give  it  up  just 
yet.  However,  as  I  said,  I  am  going  away  to-morrow,  and  I 
must  give  you  fair  warning  that  Mrs.  Ronald  and  her  set  are 
watching  you.  Be  proud,  feel  much,  show  little;  and  if  he 
should  come  back,  be  on  your  guard.  He  is  a  good  and  honor- 
able man,  but  there  may  be  reasons  why  he  cannot  marry,  you 
see." 

So  she  too  knew  or  suspected  his  disgrace.  Ay,  Sybil  re- 
membered the  Moonagh  Herald,  and  the  words  she  had  read. 
Oh  !  God  help  them  both  !     What  a  lot  was  theirs  ! 

"And  so,  my  dear — "  resumed  Mrs.  Mush. 

"Mrs.  Mush,  I  cannot  bear  it,"  passionately  interrupted 
Sybil ;  "  I  cannot  bear  it." 


Sybil's  second  love.  391 

"  But  if  lie  should  come  back,"  persisted  Mrs.  Mush  ;  she 
ceased  rather  abruptly,  for  Mr.  Dermot  himself  was  walking  slowly 
toward  them  in  the  grayness  of  a  shady  path.  And  Sybil  had 
to  stand  still,  and  not  to  spring  toward  him.  She  had  to  wait 
his  coming,  and  greet  her  husband  as  an  acquaintance  or  a 
stranger ;  Avhilst  her  heart  beat  with  a  joy  that  almost  stifled  her. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  composure  of  his  manner  as  he 
bade  the  two  ladies  a  good-evening.  He  looked  as  well,  and  as 
cool  too,  as  ever.  And  he  showed  not  the  least  emotion  on 
seeing  Sybil. 

"  Oh  !  how  can  he  do  it  ? "  she  thought ;  "  how  can  he  do 
it  ?     Oh  !  if  Mrs.  Mush  would  but  go  !  " 

But  Mrs.  Mush  did  not  go;  she  stayed  on  purpose  with 
Sybil,  and  all  three  walked  together  toward  the  house.  "When 
they  crossed  the  cloister,  Mr.  Dermot  went  up  to  his  room,  and 
Sybil  and  Mrs.  Mush  joined  the  guests  in  the  drawing-room. 
Mrs.  Mush  seemed  very  much  inclined  to  keep  close  to  Sybil 
there  too  ;  but  the  young  girl  knew  her  weak  point.  She 
started  an  argument  with  the  gentleman  near  whom  she  was 
sitting,  a  rather  drowsy  old  man,  who  lingered  over  an  idea. 
Mrs.  Mush  fell  into  the  trap,  and  began  talking  away.  Sybil, 
in  the  mean  while,  slipped  out  quietly,  and  ran  breathlessly  up 
to  her  room. 

"  I  know  I  looked  pale  and  ill,"  she  thought ;  and  this  gray 
barege  makes  me  look  worse.  He  likes  me  in  white,  and  if  I 
change  my  dress,  who  save  he  will  see  it  ?  " 

Sybil  never  dressed  slowly.  In  ten  minutes  the  change  was 
effected — the  gray  barege  was  put  by  for  the  white  muslin. 
She  put  a  rose  in  her  dark  hair,  she  fastened  another  in  her 
flowing  sash,  and  the  gladness  of  his  return  shone  in  her  eyes, 
and  gave  her  something  beyond  the  tirewoman's  art.  "  He  will 
not  think  I  look  pale  and  ill  now,"  thought  Sybil,  as  she  turned 
away  from  her  mirror  and  blushed  with  secret  joy  at  the  fair 
image  it  shoAved  her ;  "  but  perhaps  he  will  see  that  I  have 
changed  my  dress,  and  guess  why.  What  if  he  does  ?  Am  I 
not  his  wife  ? — is  he  not  my  husband  ?  Have  I  not  a  right  to 
dress  for  him  ?  " 

She  would  not  listen  to  Prudence,  who  whispered  a  re- 
monstrance about  the  gray  barege.  She  slipped  out  of  the 
room  into  the  half-dark  landing,  and  had  scarcely  gone 
a  few  steps  when  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Der- 
mot. 


392  Sybil's  second  love. 

He  gave  a  quick  look  round,  then  took  lier  in  his  anus 
and  kissed  her  gladly  and  fondly. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  whispered,  breathlessly. 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  like  a  man  who  holds  a  bird 
in  his  hand.  If  he  opens  his  fingers  so,  it  goes,  and  his 
trouble  is  vaiu.  Sybil,  I  come  back  to  defeat  her — be  patient 
two  days — I  ask  for  no  more." 

Sybil  did  not  question,  though  she  longed  to  know. 
"  It  may  be  in  an  hour,  and  it  may  be  in  two  days,"  he 
resumed;  "she  cannot  escape  me — be  patient,  Sybil." 

"  She  is  always  out,"  said  Sybil ;  "  she  is  going  out  to- 
morrow, and  after  to-morrow  there  will  be  a  concert  rehearsal 
here." 

"  Sybil,  no  opportunity  must  tempt  us — she  -must  know  or 
suspect  nothing." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Sybil. 

"  I  may  go  away  again,  and  you  must  not  fret,"  he  said. 

"  Very  well,"  she  replied  again ;  but  she  spoke  rather 
faintly. 

"And  now  you  must  leave  me  and  go  down." 

"  Xow  ?     And  will  you  go  away  without  my  seeing  you  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  terror. 

"  You  mean  to-night  ?  Why,  I  am  going  down,  too.  I  am 
curious  to  see  how  far  the  kind  lady  has  proceeded  in  my  ab- 
sence." 

He  spoke  with  his  defiant  smile — a  smile  that  always  became 
him,  because  it  was  ever  tempered  with  sweetness.  Sybil  lin- 
gered to  look  at  him. 

"  He  will  never  admire  me  as  I  admire  him,"  she  thought, 
"  never." 

Until  then  Mr.  Dermot  had  not  noticed  the  change  in  her 
dress,  but  as  she  stood  thus  at  the  head  of  the  staircase,  her 
band  on  the  banisters,  her  head  half  turned  to  look  at  him,  he 
suddenly  perceived  the  rose  in  her  hair,  the  flowing  sash,  and 
the  white  muslin.  He  gave  her  a  quick,  keen  look,  which  made 
her  turn  crimson. 

"  My  poor  darling,"  he  sighed,  "  what  have  von  been 
doing  ? " 

Sybil  felt  ready  to  cry  with  mortification  and  shame. 

"  Has  any  one  seen  you  so  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  faintly -replied  Sybil. 

"  Then,  pray,  go  and  resume  the  gray  dress,"  he  entreated, 
seeming  much  relieved,  "pray  do,  Sybil." 


sybil's  second  love.  303 

Sybil  went.  All  her  little  joy  and  triumph  were  gone  in  a 
moment.  If  she  had  looked  back,  and  seen  him  standing  there, 
his  look  following  her  light,  young  figure  going  down  the  dark 
landing,  Sybil  might  not  have  felt  so  sad,  for  as  be  looked,  Mr 
Dermot  thought : 

"  Ah  !  if  it  were  not  for  this  cross,  all  this  would  be  very 
sweet — too  sweet." 

For  sweet  are  youth  and  beauty,  and  sweet  is  love  with  all 
its  little  fond  follies.  And  Sybil  did  not  know  till  years  later 
how  her  white  dress  and  her  rose  had  moved  her  husband's  very 
heart.  Sadly  and  heavily  she  put  by  her  little  finery,  and  re- 
sumed the  gray  barege.  She  saw  no  sign  of  Mr.  Dermot  this 
time  when  she  went  down.  He  was  in  the  drawing-room  when 
she  entered  it,  talking  to  Mrs.  Ronald,  who  congratulated  him 
on  his  return. 

"  You  are  back  in  time,  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said  ;  "  we  are 
going  to  have  a  concert  in  the  new  casino  before  it  is  opened 
to  the  public — shall  we  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you  ? " 

Before  Mr.  Dermot  could  reply,  Mrs.  Kennedy  said  : 

"  Mr.  Dermot  has  a  very  fine  voice,  indeed." 

"  Then  we  must  hear  him,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Ronald,  with  the 
graciousness  of  an  empress. 

Mr.  Dermot  received  these  tokens  of  favor  with  quiet  re- 
serve. But  Sybil  looked  at  him  with  happy,  admiring  eyes. 
Indeed,  Mrs.  Mush  considered  her  looks  so  expressive,  that  she 
came  and  wdiispered  a  warning. 

"  My  dear,  do  be  careful,"  she  entreated. 

Sybil  turned  upon  her  with  a  flashing  look. 

"Careful,  Mrs.  Mush  \  "  she  said—"  careful  of  what  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  see  how  people  are  looking  at  you." 

"  They  are  welcome ;  but,  Mrs.  Mush,  docs  it  not  seem  to 
you  that  Mrs.  Ronald  is  very  civil  to  him  this  evening?" 

"  Mv  dear,  Mr.  Dermot  is  universally  admired,  and  no  won- 
der! " 

Sybil's  cheeks  glowed.  She  looked  at  Mrs.  Mush  with  a 
happy  gratitude  nothing  could  check. 

"  My  dear,"  urged  the  lady,  "  do  see  how  cold  he  is  to  you." 

Sybil  smiled  in  pretty  scorn,  but,  for  all  that,  she  felt  it. 
Yes,  there  was  marked  coldness  in  Mr.  Dermot's  mannerto  her. 
His  eyes  shunned  hers,  or  fell  upon  her  as  if  they  saw  her  not. 
In  vain  she  knew  why — she  could  not  bear  it.  "When  the  party 
broke  up,  she  hoped  that,  whilst  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  engaged 


39-i  sybil's  second  love. 

with  her  guests,  he  would  at  least  say  a  few  words  to  her — 
words  which  any  one  might  hear,  but  which  would  gladden  her 
heart.  She  rose,  and  went  up  to  a  table  not  far  from  where  he 
stood,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  see  her.  She  looked  at  hira,  and 
could  not  catch  his  eye.  She  could  read  his  face,  however,  and 
she  was  struck  with  its  meaning.  The  animation,  which  it  had 
displayed  a  wdiile  back  was  all  gone,  and  in  its  stead  Sybil  read 
a  rigid  sternness,  that  almost  frightened  hei\  She  softly  went 
up  to  him,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his  sleeve,  looked  up  ques- 
tioning.    He  looked  down  at  her  silently. 

"  "What  are  you  thinking  of?  "  she  whispered. 

"  That,  if  she  likes  it,  Sybil,  all  these  people  will  spit  at  me 
to-morrow." 

He  spoke  low,  though  there  was  no  one  near  them.  Sybil 
drewr  back  with  a  reproachful  look,  which  he  did  not  heed. 
Lest  she  should  be  tempted  to  address  him  again,  he  walked 
away,  and  Sybil  remained  standing  there  in  mute  grief.  What 
was  her  childish  fondness  to  this  bitter,  gnawing  care  ? — ah  ! 
nothing — truly  nothing ! 

"  I  must  be  reasonable — I  must  be  calm,"  thought  Sybil,  as 
she  went  up  to  her  room.  "  I  must  remember  what  he  has  been, 
not  what  he  is  now,  Avith  that  thought  upon  him.  I  must  be 
reasonable." 

Alas  !  what  has  reason  to  do  with  such  things  ?  Svbil  sob- 
bed  herself  to  sleep  that  night,  and  dreamed  that  Mr.  Dermot 
came  and  stood  by  the  bed  on  which  she  lay  sleeping,  and  look- 
ing down  at  her,  said, 

"  I  wish  you  were  dead,  Sybil,  and  that  I  were  dead  with 
you." 

And  who  kn6ws  if,  as  he  sat  in  his  room  unable  to  sleep, 
thinking  of  his  young  wife,  and  the  doubtful  future,  who  knows 
if  some  such  thought  was  not  upon  Edward  Dermot? 

But  light  is  the  heart  of  youth,  and  when  Sybil  awoke  the 
next  morning,  hope  was  strong  within  her,  and  prudence,  alas ! 
was  very  far  away.  "  You  will  come  again  to  Saint  Vincent? " 
she  gayly  whispered,  as  she  bade  Mrs.  Mush  good-by  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  joy  with  which  her  husband's  return  had  filled  her 
shone  in  her  whole  aspect  throughout  that  day.  In  vain  she 
saw  that  Mrs.  Kennedy  watched  her  incessantly,  in  vain  she  per- 
ceived that  Mr.  Dermot  shunned  her  with  the  most  obstinate 
care.  Sybil  could  not  help  being  and  seeming  glad.  More- 
over, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  were  going  out  that  night,  and  if 


sybil's  second  love.  395 

she  staved  at  home,  he  surely  would  never  resist  the  temptation 
of  seeking  her  society !  So  when  it  was  time  to  dress  and  go, 
Sybil  was  unwell,  and  stayed  within.  And  this  was  no  fiction. 
Her  joy  had  made  her  feverish  and  restless,  and  no  one  who  saw 
her  flushed  cheeks,  and  unnaturally  bright  eyes,  could  doubt  it. 

"  If  you  are  not  well,  go  to  bed,"  dryly  said  her  father. 
Mrs.  Kennedy  said  nothing,  but  smiled  coldly. 

Mr.  Derinot  was  not  present,  but  surely  he  must  know  she 
was  staying  within !  She  breathed  freely  when  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Kennedy  went  up  to  dress,  and  too  impatient  to  wait  for  their 
departure,  she  went  out  into  the  grounds,  reckless  of  the  chill 
white  mists  which  stole  from  the  sea.  The  scent  of  a  cigar  led 
her  down  a  dark  and  narrow  path. 

"  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  said,  softly. 

She  got  no  answer,  but  Sybil  was  sure  she  heard  a  reccdiipj; 
step.  He  could  not  be  shunning  her  on  purpose  ?  No,  that  was  im- 
possible !  But  the  step  was  going  toward  the  house,  so  she  went 
back  to  her  room,  and  left  the  door  ajar  to  listen.  For  some  time 
all  was  quiet ;  then  Mrs.  Kennedy's  silk  dress  rustled  down  the 
staircase,  and  Mr.  Kennedy's  voice  was  heard  below,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  more  carriage-wheels  rolled  away  from  the  gates  of 
Saint  Vincent,  and  all  was  still.  "With  a  beating  heart,  Sybil 
softly  stole  down-stairs.  She  timidly  entered  the  drawing-room. 
It  was  dark,  and  seemingly  vacant.  "  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  softly 
called,  but  she  got  no  answer.  Twice  she  repeated  the  summons 
in  vain.  Sybil  would  not  be  disheartened.  She  went  over  all 
the  rooms,  she  even  ventured  into  the  dark  cloister,  and  the 
chill  garden.  There  she  got  the  key  of  the  enigma.  A  light 
burned  in  Mr.  Dermot's  room,  and  she  could  see  his  shadow 
moving  across  the  curtains.  She  watched  him  for  a  time, 
hoping  the  light  would  vanish,  and  that  he  would  come  down  ; 
but  after  taking  a  few  turns  around  the  room,  Mr.  Dermot  sat, 
down  and  began  to  write,  as  Sybil  could  see  from  the  motion  of 
his  hand. 

"  He  heard  me  in  the  garden,  but  he  does  not  want  to  see 
me,"  she  thought,  with  a  swelling  heart.  Noiseless  as  a  shadow 
she  crept  back  to  her  room,  and  there  gave  way  to  her  grief. 
She  did  not  think  that  perhaps  Mr.  Dermot  feared  his  own  im- 
prudence even  more  than  he  dreaded  hers ;  she  thought :  ' 
have  wearied  him  with  my  fondness,  and  now  he  is  tired  "i 
me  !  "  Alas  !  Mr.  Dermot-  had  had  neither  time  nor  opportu- 
nity to  grow  tired.     His  had  been  do  blessed  honeymoon,  but 


396  sybil's  second  love. 

a  season  of  sorrow  arid  tribulation.  This  atoning  thought  also 
came  to  Sybil's  mind ;  but,  ingenious  in  self-torment,  she  an- 
swered it :  "  Yes,  that  is  it !  His  cares  have  been  too  much 
for  his  love.  His  heart  has  grown  wearied  and  languid,  and 
there  is  no  room  for  me  !  Oh  !  I  cannot  bear  it !— -I  cannot 
bear  it !  " 

Time  passed.  The  hours  went  by.  Twelve  struck.  If  she 
had  had  a  vague  hope  of  seeing  him  again,  it  vanished.  She 
flung  herself  on  her  knees  and  asked  for  strength  to  bear  this 
great  anguish,  this  doubt  of  his  affection,  which,  lulled  awhile, 
had  again  sprung  up,  bitter  and  tormenting  ;  but  strength  came 
not,  and  she  only  wept  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  Sybil,"  said  his  reproachful  voice. 

She  looked  round  with  a 'start,  and  saw  Mr.'Dermot  stand- 
ing at  the  door,  and  looking  in  at  her  gravely. 

Sybil  rose, '  ashamed  and  mute.  Alas  !  what  construction 
would  he  put  on  this  grief?  Could  she  be  always  telling  him 
that  he  did  not  care  for  her  ?  Is  not  the  reproach  of  cofdness 
mere  begging  for  love  ?  But  she  needed  to  say  nothing.  He 
knew  all,  and  said  so. 

"  I  know  what  you  feel  and  think,"  he  said  sadly  ;  "  but  do 
not  doubt  me,  Sybil.  Eemember  that,  much  as  I  love  you, 
that  love  cannot  be  every  thing  to  me  just  now.     Do  not  doubt 


me  " 


Sybil  could  not  answer  him  for  mortification.  Was  it  her 
part  to  be  ever  a  suppliant  for  love  ?  If  he  could  not  give  it  in 
that  full  measure  which  she  craved,  ought  she  not,  even  though 
a  wife,  to  bear  her  fate  with  a  woman's  pride  ? 

"  I  do  not  want  your  love  for  me  to  be  every  thing  to  you," 
she  said  a  little  indignantly ;  "  I  only  want  you  to'remember 
that  when  you  married  me  you  took  me  to  share  your  lot  and 
your  counsel,  and  I  complain  that  you  do  neither.  You  go, 
and  I  do  not  know  whither.  We  part,  and  I  do  not  know 
when  we  are  to  meet  again.  I  do  not  complain  that  you  do 
not  love  me,  Mr.  Dermot,  but  that  you  do  not  trust  me." 

Alas  !  Sybil  was  truthful,  but  this  was  not  quite  the  truth. 
Sybil  did  complain  in  her  heart  that  her  husband  did  not  love 
her  enough  ;  but  she  could  not  bear  to  say  so,  and  she  built  up 
her  wrongs  on  his  want  of  confidence.  Mr.  Dermot  believed 
her,  and  was  pained.  He  came  forward,  and,  leaving  the  door 
ajar  to  hear  any  coming  step,  he  said' tenderly, 

"  Was  that  why  I  heard  you  sobbing  through  my  open  win 
dow  ']     My  darling,  yon  shall  know  every  thing  later." 


Sybil's  second  love.  397 

"  Ay,  there  it  is,"  replied  Sybil,  waxing  wroth  ;  "  I  am 
such  a  baby  that  you  cannot  trust  me  ? " 

"  No,  no,  that  is  not  it,"  he  said  soothingly ;  "  but  you  are 
open  as  day ;  and  how  she  has  been  watching  you  since  I  came 
back  !  Sybil,  till  I  can  defy  her  to-morrow,  a  word,  a  breath, 
may  undo  me." 

"  Then  tell  me  nothing,  Mr.  Dermot." 

She  spoke  bitterly,  yet  Mr.  Dermot  was  tempted  to  take  her 
at  her  word,  but  he  remembered  the  weeping  he  had  overheard, 
and  of  which  her  cheeks  still  kept  traces,  and  he  said, 

"  And  if  I  do  not  tell  you,  how  will  you  feel,  Sybil  ?  " 

lie  stood  by  her  side,  and  looked  down  in  her  face.  She 
looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 

"Tell  me — trust  me,"  she  half  whispered. 

He  could  not  resist  her.  The  weakness,  the  fondness  of  his 
love  were  strong  upon  him  then.  He  forgot  the  spot,  and  the 
hour,  and  Hatred,  ever  on  the  watch  ;  he  only  remembered  that 
his  young  wife  looked  up  at  him  with  those  soft,  beseeching 
eyes,  and  with  that  entreating  smile. 

"  You  little  siren,"  he  said  fondly,  "  I  must  be  on  my 
guard  against  you  another  time.  And  yet  it  will  be  of  no  use. 
You  will  shed  a  few  tears,  or  coax  me,  and  of  course  I  shall 
yield — as  I  do  now." 

"  But  you  are  not  telling  me,  sir." 

"  Well,  that  proof  of  her  treachery  which  I  went  to  seek  I 
shall  have  within  a  few  hours.  I  was  not  mistaken — her 
brother  wrote  that  letter,  and  we  can  tax  her  with  it.  I  do  be- 
lieve, Sybil,  that  when  the  serpent  has  lost  its  fangs  it  -will  be 
harmless.  Whether  she  submits  or  not,  she  leaves  this  house. 
To-morrow,  Sybil,  we  shall  be  alone  in  Saint  Vincent." 

Sybil  felt  breathless.  To-morrow !  She  had  thought  of 
that  future  as  of  a  thing  remote  and  almost  doubtful,  and  now 
it  was  to  be  to-morrow  !  The  new  life  was  to  begin  so  soon ! 
He  watched  her  troubled  face,  and  asked  what  ailed  her. 

"  I  am  afraid.  I  fear,  I  do,  that  you  have  made  a  poor 
bargain  in  me.  I  am  full  of  faults.  I  am  wayward  and  unjust. 
Indeed,  I  have  a  hundred  imperfections." 

"I  always  heard  that  voyages  of  discovery  were  pleasant, 
things,"  he  replied  smiling.  "1  have  no  doubt  that  you  will 
give  me  a  variety  of  experiences,  and,  as  we  shall  live  much 
alone,  it  is  well  that  we  should  not  have  too  much  monotony." 

She  knew  what  he  meant  by  "  living  much  alone." 


398  stbil's  second  love. 

"Ah  !  what  a  life  for  you,  Mr.  Dertnot,"  she  said,  looking 
up  at  him  with  sad,  wistful  eyes,  "  what  a  fate  for  you,  who  wen 
meant  to  move  amongst  and  to  rule  your  fellow-men — to  have 
nothing  left  save  a  poor  little  girl  such  as  I  am  ! " 

"  Sybil,  it  is  something  to  be  lord  of  a  true  heart.  It  is 
something  to  have  love.  I  know  that  many  weary  of  that  em- 
pire and  that  possession,  but  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  should  ever 
weary  of  you.  It  seems  impossible,"  he  added,  lookiag  down 
at  her  with  infinite  tenderness.  "  I  know  that  youth  and 
beauty  will  fade — and  m ore's  the  pity  when  both  are  so 
charming — but  vet  I  could  not  stow  tired  of  vou,  Sybil.  If 
you  were  no  longer  pleasant  to  look  at,  you  would  still  be  de- 
lightful to  listen  to." 

"  xVh  !  but  suppose  I  get  dumb  ? " 

"  There  is  not  much  fear  of  that,  my  dear." 

Sybil  laughed,  and  she  had  a  laugh  both  musical  and  low, 
which  justified  Mr.  Dermot's  praises.  It  was,  indeed,  her  happy 
fate  to  charm  all  his  senses.  There  was  something  in  her 
whole  being  which  harmonized  with  his  tastes  and  feelings. 
Long  before  he  loved  her,  he  had  admired,  and  half  envied  the 
mau  who  would  win  so  bright  a  prize.  And  now  he  liked  her 
fair  young  face  and  her  dark  eyes,  the  pretty  turn  of  her  neck, 
and  her  light  step  aud  graceful  carriage.  The  very  sweep  of 
her  skirts  had  something  in  it  that  was  a  pleasure  to  his  eye,  as 
the  sound  of  her  voice  was  sweet  in  his  ear. 

"  Sybil,"  he  said,  from  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  "  I  k\jow  you 
think  I  do  not  care  enough  about  you — but  believe  me,  hard  as 
my  fate  is,  I  shall  be  very  happy,  deeply  happy  to-morrow.  I 
mean  to  go  to  Lethe  and  drink  a  full  cup,  and  forget  all  save 
that,  if  my  fate  is  hard,  I  have  snatched  one  prize,  at  least,  from 
her  reluctant  grasp." 

He  gently  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  looked  down 
at  her.  He  loved  her  much,  very  much,  and  he  forgot  to  leave 
her. 

The  rustling  of  a  silk  dress  roused  them  both.  Mr.  Dermot 
knew  what  it  was,  and  without  moving  his  hand  from  Sybil's 
shoulder,  slowly  and  calmly  turned  round. 

"  She  stood  before  them,  haughty  and  smiling  in  her  iron- 
ical triumph.  She  had  just  come  home  from  Mrs.  Ronald's 
party,  and  was  splendidly  dressed.  Her  rich  white  silk  swept 
the  floor,  and  half  filled  Sybil's  room.  She  was  covered  with 
jewels,  and  a  diamond  star  sparkled  with  every  motion  of  her 
fair  head. 


sybil's  second  love.  399 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  graciously,  "  I  am  very  rude, 
but  hearing  a  man's  voice  in  Miss  Kennedy's  room,  I  was  so 
surprised  that  I  came  in  without  knocking." 

"  Mrs.  Dermot's  room,"  he  quietly  corrected.  She  looked 
at  them  both,  and  smiled  again,  but  very  bitterly.  So  they 
had  baffled  her  after  all — they  were  married. 

"  Mrs.  Dermot,"  she  repeated  with  ironical  emphasis,  "  you 
amaze  me,  I  did  not  know  that  this  lady  did  me  the  honor  of 
being  my  guest." 

"  The  honor  is  hers,  not  yours,"  he  replied,  in  the  same 
quiet  tone ;  "  for  she  is  the  hostess,  and  you  are  the  guest,  Mrs. 
Kennedy." 

"This  house  is  yours,  Mr.  Dermot  ?" 

He  bowed.  She  turned  to  the  door,  and  her  voice  rang 
loud  and  clear  on  the  landing. 

"Mr.  Kennedy  !  "  she  called  ;  "  Mr.  Kennedy  !  " 

He  was  slowly  coming  up  the  staircase,  and  he  now  stood 
at  its  head  confronting  her.  She  faced  him  in  all  her  imperious 
beauty. 

"  This  house  is  Mr.  Dermot's  ?  "  she  said. 

"  It  is." 

And  his  voice  and  look  were  equally  sullen. 

"  And  how  dare  you  bring  me  to  Mr.  Dermot's  house  ?  "  she 
asked,  her  eyes  flashing  with  fury. 

"  And  how  dare  you,  madame,  question  my  right  to  bring 
you  anywhere  I  choose  ?"  he  replied,  doggedly. 

She  looked  at  him  in  scornful  amazement,  then  turned  away. 

"  Of  course,  you  know  he  is  your  daughter's  husband,"  she 
said,  as  she  passed  by  him. 

Mr.  Kennedy  looked  at  her  moodily,  without  replying.  She 
was  jealous — he  knew  she  was  jealous. 

"  After  that,"  she  continued,  with  a  short,  disdainful  laugh, 
"  I  must  wonder  at  nothing." 

She  went  on,  and  entered  her  room. 

"  What  wretched  folly  brought  you  here  ?  "  angrily  asked 
Mr.  Kennedy,  addressing  Mr.  Dermot ;  "  come   down,   I  want 

you." 

lie  went,  but  Mr.  Dermot  lingered  behind. 

"  Oh,  I  have  ruined  all!  "  pitifully  exclaimed  Sybil.     ''  T" 
angry  with  me — very  angry,  Mr.  Dermot,  it  will  do  me  goo<l." 

Angry?  There  was  no  anger  in  his  downward  gaze.  She 
had  ruined  all,  as  she  said,  or  rather  the  tenderness  of  his  love 


400  sybil's  second  love. 

had  conquered  his  prudence,  and  destroyed  all  his  plans,  but  he 
could  feel  no  anger. 

"  So  have  perished  conspiracies,"  he  said,  looking  down  at 
her  face  flushed  with  weeping ;  "  a  few  tears,  a  fond  prayer, 
have  undone  the  deepest  scheming  of  the  wise.  "Whose  is  the 
weakness  and  the  folly,  man's  or  woman's  ?  " 

"  Ah,  do  not  say  that  I  have  undone  you  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
piteously,  "  do  not." 

"  What  am  I  to  say,  then  ?  Neither  your  father  nor  I  can 
tax  her  with  her  guilt,  till  its  proof  lies  within  our  grasp.  It 
would  not  be  safe  to  do  so.  She  is  a  reckless  woman,  and  to 
drive  her  desperate  might  ruin  all.  Her  brother  will  write  to- 
morrow to  a  man  in  Saint  Vincent,  and  that  letter  I  can  get  by 
not  seeming  to  care  for  it.  But  let  her  know  or  suspect  so 
much,  and  I  cannot  stretch  a  finger  to  secure  it.  Till  I  have  it 
J  am  at  her  mercy.  She  does  not  know  all,  but  she  knows  too 
much.  She  can  spread  it  over  all  Saint  Vincent  that  I  have 
been  suspected  of  a  foul  crime — and  can  I  deny  it,  Sybil  ? 
There  lies  my  weakness  and  her  strength.  And  there  is  every 
thing  to  exasperate  her.  She  knows  you  are  my  wife,  and  that 
this  house  is  ours.  She  knows,  I  dare  say,  that  her  husband  is 
poor — well,  let  her  do  her  worst.  Since  I  wras  so  foolish  as  to 
enter  your  room,  and  put  us  both  in  Mrs.  Kennedy's  power,  I 
must  pay  the  penalty." 

"But  you  are  not  angry  with  me  ?"  she  said  again. 

"  Angry,  poor  child,  angry  with  you  who  are  the  victim  of 
it  all?  No,  Sybil, no — ten  times  no.  Only  be  prepared  for 
sorrow  and  humiliation,  for  both  are  in  store  for  us.  That  is 
your  father  calling  me — $jood-uia;ht." 

1  lis  lips  touched  her  forehead,  and  he  was  gone.  Sybil  flung 
herself  on  her  knees,  and  wept  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 


CHAPTER    LV. 

There  was  wrath  in  Mrs.  Kennedy's  heart,  and  jealousy  in 
It  husband's,  and  Sybil  grieved  in  her  room,  while  Mr.  Der- 
not  smoked  in  the  cloister ;  but  for  all  that,  the  concert  rehear- 
sal was  to  take  place,  and  there  was  no  talk  of  putting  off  so 
vital  an  item  of  Mrs.  Kennedy's  social  duties.     She  went  off  to 


SYBIL  S   SECOND   LOVE.  .  401 

Saint  Vincent  herself  early  in  the  morning.  She  told  her  maid 
the  pastrj'-cook  required  her  last  instructions,  and  that  she  could 
trust  so  important  a  matter  to  no  one  else ;  but  excellent  as 
her  motives  were,  Mr.  Kennedy  would  probably  have  disap- 
proved of  this  early  walk  had  he  known  of  it  in  time.  lie 
was  out  himself,  however,  and  only  learned  it  when  his  wife 
came  back,  and  they  met  at  the  gate. 

"  May  I  ask  what  took  you  out  ? "  he  inquired,  sharply. 

"I  wcut  to  the  pastry-cook's,  dear,"  she  replied,  with  a 
smile. 

The  last  night's  storm  seemed  to  have  passed  from  her  mind. 
She  looked  as  happy  and  as  good-humored  as  ever.  But  though 
her  husband  smiled  too,  he  did  not  trust  her.  They  entered 
the  house  together,  and  parted  in  the  hall,  Mr.  Kennedy  to  en- 
ter his  sitting-room,  his  wife  to  go  up-stairs  and  consult  with 
Ralph. 

"Now  what  ought  I  to  wear?"  she  said,  seeming  much  per- 
plexed ;  "lam  tired  of  blue — besides,  this  is  only  a  rehearsal, 
and  I  am  at  home,  and  must  not  be  fine,  must  I,  Ralph  ? " 

When  Mrs.  Kennedy  said  she  was  tired  of  blue,  it  was  sure 
proof  that  she  wanted  to  wear  white.  So  Ralph  promptly  sug- 
gested a  delicate  white  silk,  of  almost  gauzy  texture,  as  the  very 
thing  for  her  mistress. 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  take  off  the  trimming,  Ralph.  It  must 
be  quite  plain." 

To  take  off  the  trimming,  and,  at  the  same  time,  not  injure 
the  dress,  was  a  work  of  time  and  patience,  which  required  the 
joint  exertions  of  Ralph  and  her  mistress.  It  was  nearly  com- 
pleted, however,  when  a  sound  of  voices  in  the  hall  below  at- 
tracted Mrs.  Kennedy's  quick  ear.  She  rose,  went  out  on  the 
landing,  and  listened.  She  heard  a  heavy  step,  and  the  shrill 
voice  of  Denise  expostulating. 

"  I  tell  you,  Monsieur  must  sign  the  book,"  said  a  man's 
rough  tones. 

"  And  I  tell  you  to  come  again.     Monsieur  is  busy." 

The  man  declared,  with  an  oath,  he  would  do  no  such  thing. 

M  And  what  is  in  the  box  ?  "  urged  Denise. 

"  Can't  you  look  at  the  paper  ?  Newspapers,  I  believe  ;  yes, 
newspapers,  that  is  it.  Odd  to  send  newspapers  all  that  way, 
eh?" 

Mrs.  Kennedy  heard  no  more,  for  her  husband's  voice  now 
mingled  with  that  of  the  other  speakers.     She  looked  over  the 


402  Sybil's  second  love. 

banisters,  and  saw  him  in  the  hall  directing  the  railway  porter 
to  carry  the  box  into  his  sitting-room.  It  was  useless  to  linger 
now,  yet  she  went  back  to  her  room  very  slowly,  pausing  to 
think  with  every  step  she  took.  What  could  Mr.  Kennedy  want 
with  newspapers  ? 

Mr.  Kennedy,  after  paying  and  dismissing  the  railway  por- 
ter, entered  his  study,  and  opened  the  box  with  the  key  he  had 
received  along  with  it.  It  was  fall  of  newspapers.  Yes,  there 
they  were,  these  soiled,  half-torn  numbers  of  the  Moonagh  Her- 
ald, all  bearing  the  same  date,  all  containing  on  the  third  col- 
umn of  the  fourth  page  a  paragraph  entitled  "  Latest  Particulars," 
and  which  Mr.  Kennedy  knew  but  too  well.  How  he  hated  these 
wretched  papers,  stained  with  public-house  beer,  thumbed  with 
peasant  fingers,  and  which  had  cost  him  dearer  than  his  wife's 
diamonds  !  He  wondered  if  he  could  trust  the  ao;ent  who  had 
hunted  them  out  of  their  obscurity  for  him  ;  he  wondered  if,  pur- 
posely mingled  as  they  were  with  other  worthless  papers,  the 
French  custom-house  officers  had  detected  and  read  them  ;  and, 
above  all,  he  wondered  what  secret  foe  it  was  who  was  thus 
compelling  him  to  seek  out  the  black  spot  of  his  life. 

"Mr.  Kennedy,"  sweetly  said  his  wife,  looking  in,  "you  are 
wanted." 

He  thrust  the  papers  back  into  the  box,  locked  it  hastily, 
and  looked  at  her.     The  calmness  of  innocence  was  on  her  face. 

"  Who  wants  me  ? "  he  asked. 

"  One  of  the  clerks." 

"AVhereishe?" 

"He  is  gone  back  to  the  counting-house — I  undertook  to 
be  messenger." 

"  I  shall  go  presently." 

He  thought  she  would  leave  him,  but  she  sat  doAvn  and  be- 
wail talking  of  the  rehearsal.     He  rose,  still  she  did  not  move. 

"  You  are  not  dressing?"  he  said. 

"  Oh!  there's  plenty  of  time — I  shall  take  a  turn  in  the  gar- 
den with  you." 

She  left  llie  room  and  waited  for  him  outside;  but,  softly 
though  he  did  it,  she  heard  him  locking  the  door  and  taking 
out  the  key. 

"  The  window  is  open,"  thought  Mrs.  Kennedy. 

They  went  out  into  the  garden  together.  The  day  was  fine, 
and  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  merry.  She  walked  with  her  husband 
till  they  were  in  sight  of  the  counting-house,  and  she  talked  and 
laughed  all  the  way. 


sybil's  second  love.  403 

Mr.  Kennedy  was  silent. 

"  What  ails  you  ?  "  she  said  coaxingly  ;  "  you  are  quite  grim 
— I  cannot  let  you  be  grim,  darling." 

Her  handsome  face  was  close  to  his.  lie  kissed  it  and 
seemed  very  fond,  but  there  is  little  fondness  where  there  is 
fear,  and  Mr.  Kennedy  feared  his  wife  just  then. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  go  in  now,"  he  said. 

"  I  suppose  I  must.     Come  back  a  little  way  with  me." 

"  I  cannot,  my  love — we  have  no  time  to  spare.  The  people 
will  be  coming." 

"  That  tiresome  concert !  "  she  said.     "  Don't  be  long." 

"  No  longer  than  I  can  help,  my  love." 

She  walked  away  slowly,  but  no  sooner  was  she  out  of  sight 
than  she  ran.  Instead  of  crossing  the  garden  she  turned  into 
the  cloister.  It  was  sunlit  and  quiet.  Mrs.  Kennedy  stole  like 
a  shadow  along  the  arched  gallery  till  she  reached  the  window 
of  her  husband's  sitting-room.  It  was  ajar,  and,  pushing  it  wide 
open,  she  was  going  to  step  up  on  the  ledge  when  she  saw  Mr. 
Dermot  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  smoking  quietly.  He  was 
not  looking  at  her,  but  he  must  have  seen  her.  "What  was  he 
doing  there  ?  "Watching,  no  doubt,  whilst  her  husband  was 
awav.  She  stood  still  a  minute,  wondering  if  he  would  go  ;  but 
Mr.  Dermot  did  not  stir,  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  compelled  to 
turn  back. 

"  Let  hira  watch,"  she  thought  defiantly  ;  "  he  will  find  that 
I  have  been  beforehand  with  him." 

She  thought,  too,  that  Mr.  Dermot  could  not  stay  there  for 
ever,  and  that  it  would  be  hard'  if  she  could  not  find  some  other 
opportunity  before  the  morning  was  out.  But  vigilant  though 
she  was,  that  opportunity  did  not  come.  Twice  she  and  Mr. 
Kennedy  met  near  his  sitting-room  door,  and  twice  each  baffled 
the  other ;  for  Mrs.  Kennedy  wanted  to  ascertain  the  contents 
of  the  box,  and  Mr.  Kennedy  to  destroy  them.  He  longed  for 
fire  to  consume  these  treacherous  tokens  of  the  past,  and  yet  he 
did  not  dare  to  go  and  lock  himself  in  and  burn  them  at  once  ou 
the  hearth.  This  was  summer  time,  the  flames  and  the  smoke 
would  betray  him,  not  merely  to  his  wife,  but  to  Mr.  Dermot, 
to  whom  the  presence  in  Saint  Vincent  of  these  papers  was  un- 
known. Besides,  a  little  while  more,  aud  the  guests  would  be 
coming.  He  could  do  it  when  they  were  gone — better  still, 
when  the  whole  house  was  fast  asleep  that  night.  It  was  one 
then;  all  the  heat  of  noon  was  abroad,  and  never  did  lover  long 


40-i  sybil's  second  love. 

for  the  darkness  which  was  to  bring  him  to  the  try  sting-place, 
as  Mr.  Kennedy  longed  for  the  silent  loneliness  of  that  night.  In 
the  mean  while  he  was  alive  to  every  sound  and  token  about  the 
house ;  above  all,  he  watched  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  was  very  busy.  She  seemed  resolved,  indeed, 
that  this,  if  it  was  to  be  her  last  appearance  as  the  mistress  of 
Saint  Vincent,  should  be  a  triumph.  The  so-called  rehearsal 
was,  in  reality,  a  brilliant  though  select  party.  Mrs.  Kennedy 
showed  the  greatest  anxiety  about  it,  and  no  doubt  because  Mr. 
Dermot  had  a  fine  voice,  she  twice  asked  Denise  if  he  had  not 
come  back,  for  he  had  been  out  since  twelve. 

"  What  do  you  want  him  for,  Blanche  ?  "  asked  her  husband, 
laving  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

She  looked  round  full  in  his  face,  and  smiled  rather  bitterly. 
'.    "  Surely  the  master  of  the  house  ought  to  be  present,"  she 
said. 

"  Yes,  but  what  do  you  want  him  so  particularly  for,  Mrs. 

Kennedy  ? " 

"  And  why  do  you  not  want  him  ? "  she  retorted  ;  "  he  is 
your  son-in-law,  Mr.  Kennedy  ! " 

"And  your  brother,  Blanche — where  is  your  brother  ? " 

She  started,  her  lips  parted,  her  color  faded  beneath  his  keen 
look.  She  had  never  spoken  of  that  brother  to  her  husband — 
how  did  he  know  of  his  existence?  Mr.  Dermot  must  have 
told  him,  and  if  so,  how  far  had  his  revelations  extended?  Her 
color  slowly  returned,  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  inquiry,"  she  said,  with 
a  smile.  "  I  trust  my  brother  will  make  his  appearance  some 
day." 

"  I  trust  he  will  have  no  cause  not  to  do  so,"  significantly 
replied  her  husband. 

He  left  her  and  walked  up-stairs,  and  his  wife  heard  him 
knock  at  his  daughter's  door. 

She  did  not  take  time  to  think,  discovery  hemmed  her  m, 
and  she  resolved  to  forestall  it  by  securing  at  least  her  revenge. 
This  time  she  would  stop  at  nothing.  She  tried  the  door  of  her 
husband's  sitting-room,  it  was  still  fast,  but  she  remembered  the 
window  through  which  she  could  have  entered  it  so  easily  a  few 
hours  ago.  She  went  round  to  the  cloister.  This  time  Mr. 
Dermot  was  not  smoking  there.  The  cloister  was  vacant,  and~ 
tho  window  was  half  open.  In  a  second  she  stood  on  the  ledge, 
and  jumped  into  the  room.     In  another  moment  she  was  on  her 


SYBILS    SECOND    LOVE.  405 

knees  on  the  floor,  ready  and  resolved  to  break  the  box  open. 
But  there  was  no  need  to  do  so.  In  his  hurry  and  alarm,  Mr. 
Kennedy  had  locked  the  box  -without  fastening  the  hasp,  and 
she  had  but  to  raise  the  lid  in  order  to  be  mistress  of  its  contents. 
She  laughed  aloud  on  seeing  the  heap  of  papers  it  contained. 
What  blindness,  what  infatuation,  had  brought  these  Moonagh 
Heralds,  which  she  had  never  been  able  to  secure,  so  scarce  had 
they  become,  within  her  reach  ?  "  They  must  be  mad  !  "  she 
thought,  "  they  must  be  mad  !  "  She  took  two,  and  rose  to 
go  ;  but  she  could  not  bear  to  leave  with  so  poor  a  prey.  She 
came  back  and  took  three  more,  and  as  she  reached  the  window 
she  returned  to  take  another.  Fear  of  immediate,  not  ultimate 
detection,  alone  prevented  her  from  taking  the  whole.  Her 
hatred  was  strong,  and  she  felt  as  if  nothing  could  sate  her 
revenge. 

Mrs.  Kennedy  went  up  to  her  room ;  Ralph's  task  was 
finished,  and  her  mistress  could  lock  her  door  and  examine  her 
booty.  The  Moonagh  Heralds  all  bore  the  same  date.  She 
looked  at  one.  In  a  moment  she  found  what  she  wanted — the 
coroner's  inquest  on  Mr.  Smith. 

This  event,  though  so  little  known  abroad,  had  produced  a 
sensation  in  Moonagh.  It  filled  up  three  columns  of  this  ob- 
scure paper,  and  had  evidently  taken  a  strong  hold  of  the  pub- 
lic mind.  And  how  terribly  suspicious  it  looked  !  True,  it 
ended  in  an  open  verdict,  but  that  open  verdict  was  the  death 
of  Mr.  Dermot's  fame !  Mrs.  Kennedy's  eyes  sparkled.  He 
had  cheated  and  deceived  her.  He  had  not  given  her  his  confi- 
dence ;  he  had  not  lamented  her  treason,"  but  had'  at  once 
sought  and  found  consolation  in  another  love.  Above  all,  he 
had  singled  out  the  girl  whom  she  would  have  denied  him  for- 
ever ;  he  had  married  Sybil,  and  he  was  the  master  of  Saint 
Vincent !  For  all  these  sins  he  should  now  suffer.  Anony- 
mous letters  might  be  despised,  but  who  would  dare  to  impugn 
the  cruelly  accurate  testimony  of  this  Moonagh  Herald,  which 
described  Mr.  Dermot's  person,  and  gave  the  very  color  of  his 
hair,  as  he  appeared  at  the  inquest  "She  felt  no"  pity  for  him, 
not  an  atom.  She  took  the  six  newspapers,  made  six  separate 
packets  of  them,  and,  lest  her  husband  should  detect  her  theft, 
she  resolved  to  dispose  of  them  that  same  day.  She  unlocked 
her  door,  rang  for  her  maid,  and  began  dressing;  and  even 
Ralph  noticed  in  what  high  spirits  his  mistress  was^ 

Whilst  she  triumphed,  there  was  sorrow  in   Sybil's  heart 


406  sybil's  second  love. 

She  resolved  not  to  appear  at  the  rehearsal.  She  was  weary 
of  all  this,  and  almost  longed  for  some  catastrophe  to  end  it 
In  that  mood  her  father  found  her,  when,  leaving  his  wife,  he 
went  up  to  the  room  and  bade  her  dress  and  come  down. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  replied,  apathetically. 

He  pressed  her,  still  she  resisted.     At  length  he  said, 

"  You  must.     Dermot  said  you  should." 

Sybil  only  half  believed  it,  but  that  half  belief  ruled  her, 
and  she  hesitatingly  said  she  would  sec.  As  he  left  her,  Mr. 
Kennedy  passed  by  his  wife's  door,  and  heard  her  talking  and 
laughing  within. 

""Why  is  she  so  merry?"  he  thought,  with  an  anxious 
frown ;  for  it  had  come  to  this  between  him  and  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy, that  for  some  time  past  he  had  never  seen  her  glad  with- 
out "feeling  a  secret  dread.  At  once  his  thoughts  flew  back  to 
the  papers  below.  It  seemed  impossible  that  she  should  have 
touched  them,  yet  he  could  not  tell.  He  went  down,  tried  the 
door  of  his  room,  and  found  it  fast.  "  Shall  I  burn  them  now, 
or  wait  till  night  ?  "  he  thought,  hesitatingly.  He  had  not  time 
to  resolve  tbequestion.  A  carriage  drew  up  at  the  gates,  and 
from  where  he  stood  he  saw  Mrs.  Ronald  alighting,  whilst  Miss 
Spencer  remained  in  the  carriage.  What  did  she  come  so 
early  for,  and  why  did  the  companion  remain  behind  ?  It  could 
bode  no  good,  and  might  certainly  bode  evil.  But  none  better 
than  Mr. "Kennedy  knew  how  to  rule  his  countenance ;  and  it 
was  with  the  most  genial,  cheerful  smile  that  he  went  to  meet 
Mrs.  Ronald.  She  was  cold  and  stately,  but  Mr.  Kennedy  saw 
nothing  of  it. 

"  May  I  request  five  minutes'  private  conversation  with  you, 
Mr.  Kennedy  ?  "  she  said  gravely. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  madame — pray  come  up  to  the  drawing- 
room." 

"  I  want  to  be  alone  with  you,  Mr.  Kennedy — alone,  be- 
fore the  rest  of  the  company  comes." 

"  Mr.  Kennedv  took  out  the  kev  of  his  sitting-room,  and 
snowed  Mrs.  Ronald  in. 

"Mr.  Kennedv,"  said  that  lady,  when  she  was  seated. 
"allow  me  to  ask  who  Mr.  Dermot  is  ? 

"  A  gentleman  of  good  family,  Mrs.  Ronald,  and  my  friend," 
was  the  istiil*  reply. 

Mrs.  Ronald  looked  a  little  flurried,  and  said  in  a  less  au- 
thoritative tone. 


Sybil's  second  love.  407 

"  Then  I  suppose  this  cannot  apply  to  him." 

"  She  handed  Mr.  Kennedy  an   open  letter,  in  the  same 

handwriting  as  that  which  had  been  sent  to  Miss  Glvn,  and 

which  ran  thus  : 

"  Is  Madame  de  Lonville  aware  of  the  real  character  of  the 
gentleman  who  resides  at  Saint  Vincent  ?  Is  she  aware  that  he 
is  suspected  of  the  foulest  crime  ?  Is  she  aware  that  a  year 
ago  he  was  publicly  accused  of  murder  in  Ireland?  Is  she 
aware  that  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Smith  was  burned  to  death,  and 
that  Mr.  Dermot  was  accused  of  having  set  fire  to  the  house? 
But  no,  Madame  de  Lonville  cannot  know  it.  Let  her  therefore 
take  warning  of  A  Friend." 

Drops  of  anguish  and  fear  gathered  on  Mr.  Kennedy's  fore- 
head, but  he  was  silent. 

"  This  letter,"  resumed  Mrs.  Ronald,  "  was  brought  to  me 
an  hour  ago  by  Madame  de  Lonville.  She  came,  apparently, 
to  have  it  translated,  but  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  the  poor 
woman's  failing  is  talking  and  news-spreading,  and  that  she  had 
been  all  over  Saint  Vincent  with  it  before  she  came  to  me.  It 
was  thrown  in  through  her  open  parlor  window  this  morning,  by 
whom  no  one  knows." 

But  Mr.  Kennedy  knew;  he  knew  very  well  who  had  done 
this.  Now,  however,  was  not  the  time  for  resentment,  but  for 
vigilance,  and  a  bold  front.  lie  looked  at  Mrs.  Ronald,  and 
smiled. 

"  Do  you  attach  any  importance  to  this  wretched  slander?" 
he  said. 

His  tone  was  cold  and  careless.  That  carelessness  undid 
him.     Mrs.  Ronald  was  offended. 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said,  rising,  "  I  despise  anonymous  let- 
ters, but  I  regard  opinion,  and  I  warn  you  that,  if  you  continue 
to  make  Mr.  Dermot  your  guest,  you  will  find  yourself  alone  in 
Saint  Vincent." 

"  Mr.  Dermot  and  I  will  part  in  a  day  or  two,"  ambiguously 
replied  Mr.  Kennedy. 

"I  hope  so,  for  your  sake,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  pointedly  said 
Mis.  Roland — "and  I  hope  so,  too,  for  that  of  Mrs.  Kennedy. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Kennedy,  I  think  you  are  bound  to  be  generous  to 
your  young  wife,  as  well  as  to  your  friend.  It  would  be  cruel  t" 
shut  her  out  from  the  world.  She  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful 
I  know  few  young  persons  of  her  years  for  whom  I  have  so 
great  a  regard  as  for  Mrs.  Kennedy." 


408  sybil's  second  love. 

Mrs.  Roland  was  quite  affected  as  she  came  to  the  close  of 
this  speech,  which  Mr.  Kennedy  heard  with  his  unchanging- 
smile. 

"  Mrs.  Kennedy  is  much  indehted  to  you  for  your  good 
opinion,"  he  said,  courteously,  "  and  will  not,  I  trust,  meet  so 
hard  a  fate  as  that  you  predict." 

"  Not  if  the  connection  between  you  and  Mr.  Dermot 
ceases,"  said  Mrs.  Ronald.  "I  say  it  again,  I  despise  anony- 
mous letters,  hut  unless  Mr.  Dermot  disproves  this,  you  must 
share  in  the  obloquy  which  will  fall  upon  him." 

"  He  will  disprove  it,"  deliberately  said  Mr.  Kennedy  ;  "  it 
is  a  lie  from  beginning  to  end — Mr.  Smith  is  alive  and  well." 

Mrs.  Roland  was  staggered,  but  not  quite  convinced. 

"  Well,  let  him  disprove  it,"  she  said;  "but "until  then,  Mr. 
Kennedy,  let  him  not  enter  your  house,  or  be  seen  with  your 
daughter.     Take  my  advice — it  is  that  of  a  friend." 

Mr.  Kennedy  had  a  conscience,  not  an  inconvenient  one, 
still  his  look  fell  as  Mrs.  Ronald  spoke.  Besides,  how  could  he 
forbid  Saint  Vincent  to  its  master,  or  Sybil's  presence  to  her 
husband  ?  Yet  he  wondered  if  he  could  not  avoid  the  peril 
which  threatened  him  to-day,  and  put  back,  for  a  while  at  least, 
the  inevitable  blow.  Still  smiling,  he  saw  Mrs.  Ronald  up  to 
the  drawing-room.  Scarcely  had  they  entered  it  together,  when 
Mrs.  Kennedy  appeared,  lovely  and  gracious;  then  the  other 
guests  came,  and  last  of  all,  Sybil,  pale  and  silent,  entered,  and 
took  her  seat  apart.  Her  father  went  up  to  her,  and  said,  in  a 
low,  even  key : 

"  Madame  de  Lonville  got  an  anonymous  letter  this  morn- 
ing, and  all  the  people  here  have  seen  it ;  go  out  and  watch  for 
him,  and  keep  him  away." 

Pale  as  death,  Sybil  rose  and  obeyed.  She  went  out  into 
the  garden ;  she  knew  he  would  come  back  that  way,  and  she 
waited — for  once  praying  and  hoping  not  to  see  her  husband. 
But  it  was  not  to  be.  Slowlv,  and  with  dowmcast  eves  and 
arms  folded,  he  came  toward  her. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  deceive  him,"  thought  Sybil,  with  sudden 
hope,  "  and  cheat  him  into  not  going  in." 

So  she  clothed  her  face  with  smiles,  and  went  on  to  meet 
him. 

"  Well,  sir,  where  have  you  been  the  whole  morning  ? "  she 
asked,  gayly. 

"  I  was  out  on  that  business,  Sybil,"  he  replied. 


Sybil's  second  love.  409 

"  And  have  you  succeeded  ? " 

"  I  have — I  now  hold  the  proofs  of  that  woman's  guilt,  Sybil. 
Let  her  slander  me,  if  she  dare  ? " 

"  Ah !  if  he  knew  ! — if  he  knew  !  "  thought  Sybil,  with  an 
aching  heart ;  but  aloud  she  asked,  "  and  what  will  you  do  ?" 

"I  shall  tax  her  with  this,  Sybil.  lean  and  will  do  no 
more  for  the  present.  I  believe  your  father  means  to  go  to-day, 
and  we  can  at  last  have  Saint  Vincent  in  peace." 

"  But  if — if  it  should  be  known  later  ?  "  suggested  Sybil. 

"  "Why  should  it  ?  Moonagh  is  to  be  found  on  no  map. 
The  death  of  that  poor  fellow  made  its  way  to  no  English  paper 
that  I  know  of.  He  had  neither  kith  nor  kin.  He  was  one  of 
life's  adventurers;  the  waters  of  that  troubled  sea  have  closed 
over  him,  and  who  will  go  and  search  for  him  in  their  depths, 
poor  wretch  ? " 

"  But  if  some  one  else,  for  instance,  should  do  what  she  tried 
to  do?" 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  his  bright,  genial  smile. 

"  I  had  offended  the  coroner,  and  therefore  he  was  against 
me  iu  that  sad  matter ;  but  he  died  since,  and  I  need  not  fear 
him.  I  offended  Mrs.  Kennedy  by  falling  in  love  with  you,  but 
I  have  her  here,"  he  added,  touching  his  pocket,  "  and  she  is  as 
harmless  as  a  child  !  Sybil,  I  do  believe,  my  darling,  that  I  have 
no  other  enemy;  I  never  willingly  hurt  or  wronged  living  crea- 
ture. Who,  then,  wrould  be  so  cowardly  or  so  base  as  to  revive 
this  foul  slander  ?  No  one — believe  me — no  one  !  Human  na- 
ture is  not  pitiless  or  inexorably  cruel,  Sybil.  Besides,  there  is 
always  danger  in  wickedness,  and  every  one  knows  that  too. 
"  No,"  he  added,  still  smiling,  "  I  have  thrown  a  weight  of  care 
away,  and  do  not  mean  to  take  it  up  again.  I  mean  to  be  very 
happy  here  with  you,  Sybil." 

There  was  not  a  shadow  on  his  face,  not  a  doubt  in  his  look 
or  iu  his  smile.  His  elastic  temper  had  conquered  the  danger 
and  the  fear  of  his  position  ;  he  shut  his  eyes  to  both,  and  only 
saw  that  he  was  at  last  the  master  of  Saint  Vincent,  and  the 
husband  of  a  very  fair  young  wife.     Sybil's  lip  quivered  slio-htlv. 

"  It  will  break  his  heart !  "  she  thought,  "  Oh  !  if  I  can  but 
keep  him  here  !  " 

It  did  not  seem  so  difficult.  That  weight  of  care  which  Mr. 
Dermot  had  put  by,  had  left  room  for  other  feelings.  He 
seemed  very  fond  of  his  young  -wife,  and  much  tempted  to 
linger  with  her  in  the  shade  of  that  old  garden.     And  Sybil  was 


410  sybil's  second  love. 

with  him  as  Mr.  Dermot  had  never  seen  her  before.  Till  then 
she  had  betrayed  rather  than  showed  her  fondness,  and  if  she 
showed  it  now,  it  was  so  tempered  with  a  pretty  playful  co- 
quetry, that  it  both  charmed  and  perplexed  him.  This  was 
not  his  passionate  young  Sybil,  either  all  shyness  or  all  ardor ;  it 
was  not  his  saucy  young  Sybil,  with  her  little  sharp  speeches  ;  it 
was  an  alluring  Sybil,  who  was  both  coy  and  seductive,  and  who 
kept  him  chained  to  her  side  through  those  summer  hours, 
bound  there  by  a  spell  he  did  not  care  to  break.  Several  times 
he  spoke  of  going  in,  but  Sybil  treated  the  proposal  with  utter 
scorn.  Go  in  !  what  should  they  go  in  for  ?  "Was  he  tired  of 
her  so  soon  ?  This  was  Mrs.  Kennedy's  party,  her  last,  let  her 
have  it. 

"  And  I  promised  Mrs.  Ronald  to  sing,"  he  said. 

"  Mrs.  Ronald  shall  do  without  you,"  haughtily  said  Sybil. 
"  Your  wife  wants  you,  sir  !  " 

He  looked  at  her  dreamily. 

"  What  ails  you  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  do  not  know  you  to-day, 
Sybil ! " 

"  I  suppose  I  am  very  happy,"  she  said,  trying  to  laugh. 

"  I  hope  you  are — I  am  !  You  are  a  strange  little  enchant- 
ress, Sybil  You  have  the  gift,  the  wonderful  gift,  which  is 
granted  to  so  few.*' 

"  What  gift  ?  "  asked  Sybil,  slowly. 

"  The  gift — I  am  sure  no  other  woman,  however  much  I 
loved  her,  could  have  played  and  trifled  with  me  as  you  have  for 
the  last  hour — I  would  not  endure  it — but  somehow  or  other 
from  you  I  like  it ! "  he  added,  candi  dly. 

"  They  will  be  going  soon,  very  soon,"  thought  Sybil  with  a 
beating  heart.     "  Oh  !  If  I  can  but  keep  him  away  till  all  is  over  ! " 

'*  I  must  go  and  look  at  the  sea,"  she  cried,  suddenly  leav- 
ing his  side,  and  darting  down  a  path. 

He  quickly  overtook  and  arrested  her. 

"  The  sea  is  tame  to-day,  and  not  worth  looking  at,"  he  sa'd. 

"  Rut  I  want  to  see  it,"  she  replied,  wilfully.  "  Come  !  " 

"  We  are  better  here,  Sybil,  far  from  the  sea-side  glare  and 
sun." 

They  stood  in  the  deep  shade  of  a  green  alley ;  arched  trees 
bent  over  them.  It  was  an  exquisite  spot,  a  solitude  both  sweet 
and  deep ;  but  Sybil  heard  the  far  notes  of  Mrs.  Kennedy's 
voice,  and  she  trembled. 

"  Do  come  away  !  "  she  entreated. 


sybil's  second  love.  411 

"  Why  so  ? " 

"  Because  I  like  it !  " 

"  I  think  I  must  go  in,  Sybil !  " 

"And  you  will  not  please  me  even  in  that?"  she  cried,  in 
hot  indignation. 

"  My  darling,  I  will  do  any  thing  to  please  you ! " 

But  he  did  not  stir. 

She  slipped  her  arm  within  his,  and  gently  led  him  away  ; 
but  he  only  moved  a  few  steps. 

"  Is  that  Mrs.  Kennedy  singing  ? "  he  asked. 

"  What  of  it — you  do  not  care  to  hear  her,  do  youl " 

"  Why  not,  Sybil  ?     She  has  a  splendid  voice  !  " 

"  Now,  do  please  me  this  once,"  pleaded  Sybil,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  "  do — pray  do  !  " 

He  looked  down  at  her,  wondering  and  irresolute.  She 
twined  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  laying  her  cheek  to  his, 
she  kissed  him.     Alas  !  that  kiss  betrayed  her. 

"You  little  traitress  !"  he  cried,  putting  her  from  him,  and 
a  light,  half  of  love,  half  of  anger,  flashing  from  his  gray 
eyes,  uyou  are  cheating  me!  Why  do  you  want  to  keep  me 
out?" 

His  wrath  made  her  lose  all  presence  of  mind. 

"  Madame  de  Lonville  got  an  anonymous  letter  this  morn- 
ing," she  said  faintly. 

In  vain  he  compressed  his  lips;  they  quivered  with  mingled 
wrath  and  pain.  He  had  thought  himself  safe  and  victorious, 
and  he  was  defeated.  That  shame  that  had  been  lying  in  wait 
for  him  so  long,  had  come  to  him  at  last.  Oh  !  unutterable  bit- 
terness !  oh !  hard  lot,  to  be  called  from  the  tender  follies  of 
love  to  the  grim  reality  of  such  an  hour !  He  looked  at  his 
wife  with  passionate  sorrow  and  resentment. 

"  And  so,"  he  said,  "  you  were  fond  for  that — you  kept  me 
here  with  your  pretty  ways  for  that — you  gave  and  you  denied, 
you  attracted  and  you  repelled  for  that,  Sybil !  Did  you  forget 
that  I  am  your  husband?  How  dare  you  do  it — how  dare  you 
give  her  the  triumph  of  keeping  me  here — as  if  I  feared  her !  " 
he  added,  the  veins  in  his  forehead  swelling  with  indignation 
and  resentment. 

"  Oh  !  forgive  me — do,  pray  do  !  "  she  piteously  entreated ; 
"  but  I  feared—" 

"What?"  he  sharply  interrupted. 

Her  lids  fell,  her  voice  faltered. 


412  sybil's  second  loye. 

"  I  feared  they  might  insult  you." 

"  Aud  you  did  not  want  to  share  the  shame  of  a  disgraced 
man,"  he  bitterly  replied. 

Oh  !  how  deep  a  wound  must  that  be  which  could  make 
him  speak  so  ! 

"  Go  in  to  them  this  moment  if  you  think  that !  "  cried 
Sybil,  her  face  all  in  a  flame  ;  "go  in  "to  them  and  say,  'I  am 
that  Mr.  Dermot  whom  you  have  wronged  and  slandered,  and 
this  is  my  wife.' " 

He  looked  softened;  he  sighed;  he  laid  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  and  kissed  her  cheek  in  token  of  reconciliation  and 
forgiveness;  but  there  was  a  settled  darkness  in  his  face,  which 
told  Sybil  she  was  very  far  from  him  then. 

"  Go  in,"  he  said,  a  little  coldly. 

She  did  not  dare  to  ask  him  what  he  would  do.  She  turned 
toward  the  house,  and  once  looked  back;  he  had  not  stirred, 
but  stood  where  she  had  left  him,  moody  and  still.  She  en- 
tered the  drawing-room,  unheeded  ;  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  accompa- 
nying a  trio.  Sybil  looked  at  the  three  ladies,  each  with  her 
music  in  her  hand,  and  wondered  how  they  could  sing  on  such 
a  day.  No  one  minded  her  save  her  father,  whose  suddenly- 
troubled  eye  showed  that  he  could  read  her  face.  Yet  Sybil 
had  a  vague  hope. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  not  come,"  she  thought,  as  ten  minutes 
passed,  aud  he  did  not  appear. 

Suddenly  her  heart  gave  a  great  throb — the  door  opened,  it 
was  he ! 


-♦-♦•♦- 


CHAPTER    LVI. 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Dermot  stood,  pale  and  grave,  on  the 
threshold  of  the  room ;  then  he  entered  and  closed  the  door. 
A  sudden  and  dead  silence  followed.  It  lasted  but  one  minute, 
perhaps  but  a  few  seconds,  but  that  hush  following  on  the  loud 
murmur  of  conversation,  and  succeeded  by  a  low  subdued  hum, 
was  both  marked  and  impressive.  Sybil  saw  him  cast  a  keen 
glance  around  ;  but  she  noticed  that  he  went  up  to  none,  also 
that  none  came  to  him.  He  sat  down  in  a  remote  part  of  the 
room,  and  remained  there  grave,  watchful,  and  rather  stern. 


sybil's  second  love.  413 

He  had  no  need  to  watch  long ;  Mrs.  Ronald  looked  at  her 
watch  and  rose.  A  whisper  ran  round  the  company.  Several 
ladies  rustled  uneasily,  several  gentlemen  exchanged  looks;  hut 
deference  for  Mrs.  Ronald  probably  suspended  action,  for  when 

she  said, 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,  may  I  request  the  favor  of  a  few  minutes' 
private  conversation  with  you  ?  " 

No  one  stirred.  She  sailed  out  of  the  room,  and  a  pro- 
found stillness  followed. 

Sybil's  heart  sickened  Did  they  know  ?  Oh  !  if  so,  how 
she  longed  to  go  and  sit  by  his  side  and  take  her  share  of  his 
undeserved  ignominy  !  How  she  longed  to  cry  out  to  all  these 
people,  whose  cold  and  averted  glances  were  so  significant, 

"  He  is  innocent — he  is  innocent,  and  you  will  live  to  blush 
for  your  cruel  error!  Look  at  him,  and  say  if  he  can  be 
guilty  ! " 

She  watched  his  face,  and  read  volumes  in  it.  Scorn,  pain, 
resentment  were  there,  and,  above  all,  a  proud  endurance — the 
endurance  of  a  proud  and  patient  spirit,  patient  because  it  is  so 
proud. 

"  I  believe  it  is  my  turn  to  sing,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  look- 
ing around  with  a  bland  smile.  She  pulled  off  her  gloves,  and 
went  up  to  the  instrument,  and  sang  to  her  own  accompani- 
ment, and  looked  over  it  at  Sybil  and  Mr.  Dermot  with  a  taunt- 
ing, insolent  look.  Ere  she  had  half  done  the  door  opened, 
and  Mr.  Kennedy  looked  in  with  a  flushed  face,  and  called  out 
in  a  sharp  voice, 

"  Miss  Spencer  ! — will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  come  ? " 

Miss  Spencer  rose  and  left.  The  door  closed  upou  her,  and 
there  was  a  murmur  and  a  motion  amongst  the  guests ;  but 
Mrs.  Kenuedy  went  on  singing — she  excelled  in  trills,  and  did 
not  miss  a  note  of  that  through  which  she  was  now  going.  But 
wdien  she  rose  to  leave  the  instrument,  she  perceived,  for  the 
first  time,  no  doubt,  that  every  one,  save  Sybil  and  Mr.  Dermot, 
was  standing.  In  a  moment  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  all  amazement. 
They  surely  were  not  going?  Why,  the  rehearsal  was  not  half 
over ! 

"Mr.  Kennedy!"  she  cried,  addressing  her  husband,  who 
now  entered  the  room  alone,  "do  tell  these  good  people  that 
we  cannot  spare  them  yet." 

She  spoke  very  gayly,  and  laughed  as  she  spoke.  But  her 
husband's  face  remained  flushed  and  >tern. 


414  sybil's  second  love. 

"  There  is  a  storm  coming  on,"  he  said,  "  and  our  visitors 
are  afraid  of  being  detained  here  too  late." 

"  But  we  have  spare  beds,"  artlessly  said  Mrs.  Kennedy, 
opening  her  blue  eyes  ;  "  oh  !  plenty  of  spare  beds." 

But  the  excuse  of  the  stonn,  which  a  lowering  skv  had  sua;- 
gested  to  Mr.  Kennedy,  was  too  convenient  not  to  be  eagerly 
taken.  For  these  were  well-bred  people,  who  had  no  wish  for  an 
eclat,  and  affronted  you  as  decently  as  they  possibly  could.  A 
dozen  heads  gathered  at  every  window.  The  sky  was  pro- 
nounced very  threatening,  but  there  was  plenty  of  time  to  reach 
Saint  Vincent,  declared  several  voices,  and  chorus  repeated 
"Plenty!" 

With  so  fair  an  excuse  for  leaving  the  abbey,  no  one  re- 
mained behind.  A  hurried-  and  universal  leave-taking  followed. 
Mr.  Kennedy  looked  on  coldly,  but  Mrs.  Kennedy  was  loud  in 
her  regrets  and  her  reproaches.  How  could  they  go  so  precipi- 
tately ?  It  was  a  conspiracy,  indeed  it  was ;  and  she  went  from 
one  to  the  other  entreating  and  reproaching,  till  her  husband 
laid  his  hand  on  her  arm,  and  looked  her  so  sternly  in  the  face, 
that,  with  all  her  hardihood,  she  felt  compelled  to  desist. 

At  length  they  were  all  gone — the  last  flowing  skirt,  the 
last  black  coat  had  vanished  through  the  folding  doors,  and 
these  four — the  two  men  and  the  two  women — remained  alone 
in  the  deserted  drawing-room. 

Sybil  rose,  and  went  up  to  her  husband,  who  sat  in  the  same 
place  and  in  the  same  attitude,  grave,  unchanged,  and  stern. 

"Oh  Mr.  Dcrmot,  Mr.  Dermot!"  she  cried,  "why  did  you 
not  speak  and  crush  them  all  ?     How  could  you  bear  it  ?  " 

•He  looked  at  her  moodilv,  without  answering. 

"  I  hate  them  all,"  cried  Sybil,  with  flashing  eyes  ;  "  I  hate 
that  Mrs.  Ronald  with  her  looks." 

"  Hush ! "  he  replied,  with  a  scornful  smile,  "let  them  be — 
let  them  be." 

His  hand  wiped  the  tears  from  her  flushed  cheek,  but  the 
caress  was  careless  and  cold,  and  his  look  did  not  seem  to  see 
his  young  wife. 

II<t  tears  ceased  at  once.  She  felt  that  she  was  powerless 
to  soothe  this  grief — she  felt  more,  that  there  was  not  room  for 
her  in  Mr.  Dermot's  heart  just  then.  Nor  was  there.  It  is 
not  in  their  first  bitterness  that  love  has  power  over  such 
wounds.  Mr.  Dcrmot  had  drunk  deep  of  the  cup  of  humilia- 
tion within  the  last  few  minutes.     He  overflowed  with  resent- 


Sybil's  second  loye.  415 

ment,  and  full"  upon  him  was  the  strong,  hard  longing  for  re- 
venge. Mrs.  Ronald  and  her  friends  were  but  lay  figures  in  this 
tragic  history — this  drama  which  was  being  enacted  between 
him  and  Blanche  Cains,  and  in  which,  up  to  the  present  hour, 
he  had  been  so  signally  and  so  cruelly  beaten.  His  turn  was 
coming  on,  and  he  felt  no  wish  to  spare  her.  There  was  little 
tenderness  for  woman  in  the  Greeks  of  Theseus,  when  they 
fought  against  the  Amazons,  and  for  the  womanhood  of  his  false 
mistress  Mr.  Dermot  now  felt  no  mercy.  Men  seldom  spare 
women,  after  all,  when  they  meet  in  the  great  crises  of  life. 
Frederick  the  Great  probably  felt  but  limited  compassion  for 
Maria  Theresa,  and  it  was  after  he  had  slain  Penthelisea  that 
Achilles  wept  over  her.  So  it  was  not,  much  as  he  loved  her, 
at  his  fond  little  Sybil  that  Mr.  Dermot  looked  now,  though  she 
stood  by  his  side,  tender  and  indignant ;  it  was  at  the  woman 
who  had  conquered  and  humbled  him,  and  on  whom  he  was 
going  to  inflict  the  same  pan^s  which  she  had  not  spared  him. 

This  keen,  intent  look  Mrs.  Kennedy  could  not  bear.  She 
found  it  a  relief  to  turn  to  her  husband's  severe  face.  Its  mean- 
ing she  partly  read.  She  knew  attack  was  coming,  and  she 
forestalled  it. 

"Perhaps,  Mr.  Kennedy,  you  can  tell  me  why  Mr.  Der- 
mot honors  me  with  his  attention  this  afternoon  ? "  she  said, 
ironically. 

She  leaned  back  on  the  white  couch,  with  its  brilliant 
flowers  scattered  on  the  cushions  against  which  she  rested.  She 
looked  both  handsome  and  insolent.  Mr.  Kennedy  stared  at 
her  with  an  odd  mixture  of  love  and  ano-er.  He  knew  she 
was  dangerous,  a  mere  siren  luring  him  on  to  destruction ; 
he  knew  she  did  not  care  for  him,  that  she  had  married  him 
for  his  money,  that  she  was  just  now  his  peril  and  his  ruin, 
but  he  had  taken  her  for  her  beauty,  and  habit  and  time 
had  not  yet  destroyed  the  enchantment.  And  Mrs.  Kennedy 
knew  both  the  source  and  the  extent  of  her  power,  for,  without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  she  continued,  with  a  scornful  smile, 

"  Perhaps  I  have  failed  in  courtesy.  I  ought  to  have  con- 
gratulated you  on  your  son-in-law,  to  be  sure." 

She  laughed.  The  laucdi  had  often  charmed  her  husband's 
ear,  but  it  now  roused  him  to  sudden  fury. 

"  You  wretched  woman  !  "  he  said,  "what  ails  you?  What 
possesses  you?  nave  you  no  sense,  no  heart,  no  conscience ? 
— nothing  but  that  miserable  beauty  ?" 


416  syeil's  second  love. 

She  laughed  again  ;  and  glancing  over  at  a  mirror,  smiled 
complacently. 

"  Nothing  but  my  beauty,"  she  said,  "  I  believe  that  is  some- 
thing, however,  Mr.  Kennedy — at  least  I  have  been  told  so." 

II er  tone  was  as  cool  as  his  was  bitter.  Mr.  Kennedy 
calmed  down  as  if  by  magic.  He  had  other  work  in  hand 
than  this  light  war  of  words. 

"  Mrs.  Kennedy,"  he  said,  "  Madame  de  Lonville  got  an 
anonymous  letter  this  morning.     Who  wrote  it  ?  " 

"  You  had  better  ask  her  that." 

"  There  is  wonderful  baseness  in  an  anonymous  letter,  Mrs. 
Kennedy,  don't  you  think  so  ? " 

He  looked  hard  at  his  wife,  but  she  was  impenetrable  to 
such  taunts  or  looks,  and  replied  coolly, 

'•Mr.  Kennedy,  I  have  a  horror  of  commonplace." 

"  Mrs.  Kennedy,  you  wrote  that  letter." 

He  was  not  prepared  for  her  disdainful  reply. 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,  I  did." 

"  No,  you  did  not,"  he  cried,  stamping  his  foot ;  "  but  you 
did  what  was  worse — ten  times  worse  ;  you  set  on  that  wretched 
starving  brother  of  yours  to  do  it.  You  bribed  another  to  do 
what  you  did  not  dare  to  do  yourself." 

This  time  the  taunt  reached  her.     She  turned  very  white. 

"Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said,  "your  language  is  unmanly. 
You  tax  me  with  writing  an  anonymous  letter,  and  when,  to 
please  you,  I  confess  I  did  so,  you  insult  me  grossly.  I  will 
not  stay  to  be  insulted  by  you  in  the  presence  of  that  man  ! " 

She  rose  to  go,  but  her  husband  locked  the  door,  and  put 
the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"  Hermot,"  he  said,  "  where  is  that  letter  ? " 

Mr.  Dermot  rose,  and  handed  him  an  open  letter.  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy took  out  from  his  pocket-book  the  letter  Miss  Grlyn  had 
received,  and  placing  them  both  side  by  side  beneath  Mrs. 
Kennedy's  eyes,  he  said  bitterly, 

"  Vou  see  this  handwriting  and  that — one  is  an  unsigned 
slander  some  weeks  old,  the  other  is  a  letter  which  was  written 
and  signed  yesterday  by  Reginald  Cains.  Is  there  any  differ- 
ence between  these  two,  Mrs.  Kennedy?" 

She  looked  not  at  the  letters,  but  at  the  two  men  who  had 
combined  against  her,  and  there  was  unutterable  resentment  in 
the  look  ;  but  she  stood  at  bay.  She  was  bold  and  defiant  to 
the  last. 


sybil's  second  love.  417 

"  At  whose  instigation  was  the  anonymous  letter  written  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Kennedy.  "  One  directed  to  Miss  Glyn  did  no  great 
harm  ;  but  the  other,  sent  this  morning  to  that  wretched  mag- 
pie, Madame  de  Lonville,  is  by  this  over  all  Saint  Vincent.  We 
saw  its  w7ork  an  hour  ago.  At  whose  instigation  was  it  written, 
Mrs.  Kennedy  ? " 

"  At  mine,"  she  said  triumphantly ;  "  of  course,  at  mine, 
Mr.  Kennedy." 

He  would  have  given  any  thing  not  to  believe  her ;  but  he 
could  not  doubt  it.  It  was  his  ruin  which  her  lips  thus  care- 
lessly uttered,  and  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  feel  or  say,  "  It  is 
not  true." 

He  looked  at  her  in  mute  and  powerless  anger.  "What 
could  he  do  to  her  to  avenge  this  pitiless  wrong? 

"And  so,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  married  you,  I  took  you 
out  of  your  poverty  for  this — these  are  your  thanks — this  is  my 
reward." 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  scornfully  replied  ;  "  if 
I  was  poor,  I  was  young ;  and  I  don't  see  that  you  are  so  very 
rich,  after  all." 

"  But  what  could  be  your  motive  ? "  he  cried,  kindling  again 
into  wrath.  "  What  could  be  your  motive  to  write  anonymous 
letters,  and  spread  and  circulate  that  slander  here  ? — what  could 
be  your  motive  ?  " 

For  the  first  time  Mr.  Dermot  spoke. 

"Mi's.  Kennedy's  motive,"  he  said  coolly;  "why,  surely, 
James,  you  know.  It  was  to  disgrace  the  husband  of  Sybil, 
and  the  master  of  Saint  Vincent." 

Mrs.  Kennedy's  blue  eyes  flashed  ;  her  lips  quivered  ;  she 
gave  her  enemy  a  look  so  implacable,  and  so  fell,  that  Mr. 
Kennedy's  lurking  jealousy  could  not  survive  it.  Ay,  truly  she 
hated  the  man  who  now  stood  by  his  side  !  The  conviction  came 
too  late  to  give  him  any  joy.  That  hatred  had  cost  him  too  dear 
— dearer  than  Mr.  Kennedy  cared  to  give  for  any  woman's 
truth. 

"  What  more  have  you  to  say,  either  of  you?"  she  asked, 
defiantly;  "  and  what  have  you  proved  against  me  ? — nothing. 
That  is  not  my  brothers  writing  ;  I  know  nothing  of  those  let- 
ters— I  deny  it  all !  " 

"There  is  a  third  letter,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy — "a  forged  let- 
ter, intended  to  send  Dermot  off  to  Canada." 

A  livid  pallor  spread  over  her  face.  So  that  man  and  her 
18* 


418  sybil's  second  love. 

husband  had  been  watching  her  all  along  !  They  had  allowed 
her  to  go  down  to  perdition,  and  risked  ruin  rather  than  check 
her  evil  course,  and  thought,  more  stingiug  still,  she  had  been 
blind,  whilst  they  had  been  both  vigilant  and  clear-sighted.  She 
was  conquered  ;  she  knew  it,  but  she  kept  her  undaunted  look 
and  bearing. 

"Mrs.  Kennedy,"  said  Mr.  Derrnot,  coldly,  and  taking  the 
two  letters  from  Mr.  Kennedy's  hand,  "  let  that  do.  I  will 
spare  you,  for  your  husband's  sake  this  time,  but  let  that  do. 
The  next  time  you  interfere  in  my  concerns — I  shall  show  no 
mercv." 

"Do  not,"  she  replied,  with  calm  disdain ;  "  you  have  both 
united  against  me,  aud  I  defy  you  both  !  " 

She  nodded  at  them,  and  went  to  the  door.  It  was  still 
locked;  she  looked  at  her  husband,  and  imperiously  ex- 
claimed, 

"  Open  the  door,  Mr.  Kennedy." 

He  went  and  opened,  as  she  bade  him.  She  passed  by  him 
with  haughty  sweeping  skirts,  and  went  up  the  staircase  proud 
and  defiant  He  remained  standing  at  the  door,  looking  at  his 
daughter  and  her  husband.  Sybil  was  by  Mr.  Dermot'sside  ; 
herliands  were  clasped  on  his  arm,  and  she  looked  up  in  his 
face  with  sorrowful  earnestness,  and  with  silent  tenderness  he 
looked  down.  Mr.  Kennedy  gave  them  a  wearied,  sullen  look. 
It  seemed  but  a  few  days  back  that  he,  too,  loved  a  young  and 
beautiful  wife — and  how  had  it  ended  ? — how  would  it  end 
with  his  daughter  and  his  Mend  ?  Would  they,  too,  live  to 
wonder  at  this  present  folly,  and  loathe  their  dotage?  He  did 
not  care  ;  he  cared  about  nothing  then,  and  he  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  left  them  with  that  sullen,  wearied  air. 

The  passion  of  grief  which  Sybil  had  kept  in  so  long,  broke 
forth  as  her  father  closed  the  door.  She  burst  into  tears  and 
sobs  both  sorrowful  and  indignant,  for  if  she  resented  the  treat- 
ment her  husband  had  just  received,  it  broke  her  heart  to  think 
that  she  had  brought  down  that  contumely  upon  him.  It  was 
for  her  sake  chiefly  that  Blanche  Cains  so  hated  him.  It  was 
for  her  sake  that  he  had  suffered  the  bitter  ordeal  of  disgrace 
through  which  he  had  just  gone — with  manly  patience,  indeed, 
but  also  with  a  man's  keen  though  silent  resentment  of  wrong. 
II.  sal  down,  and  drawing  her  to  his  side,  he  tried  to  soothe 
her  grief  away. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Dermot,"  she  entreated,  "  let  us  leave — let  us  fly 
this  place  !  " 


sybil's  second  love.  419 

"  No,  Sybil — it  would  be  cowardly,  and  it  would  be  useless. 
I  never  intended  flight.  I  never  wished  for  concealment.  I 
have  weighed  my  fate  well,  and  I  can  bear  it.  I  know  that  I 
am  shut  out  from  life  and  its  prizes — well,  as  I  said,  I  can  bear 
it.  Saint  Vincent  is  large,  and  I  shall  not  leave  it,  unless  when 
necessity  compels  me  to  do  so.  These  shall  be  the  real  gardens 
of  Armida,  after  all." 

But  the  life  which  Mr.  Dermot  thus  pictured  to  his  young 
wife — a  life  of  love  and  indolence — had  no  charms  for  her. 

"You  belie  yourself!"  she  cried — "you  wrong  yourself, 
Mr.  Dermot.  Such  a  life  is  unworthy  of  you,  and  would  only 
make  you  wretched." 

"Poor  little  Armida!"  he  said,  kindly;  "you  want  your 
conquered  knight  to  be  brave  and  strong  again,  and  he  never 
will,  Sybil — never ;  life  has  but  one  thing  left  for  him  now — the 
love  of  a  young  wife — let  him  have  that." 

He  passed  bis  arm  around  her,  and  laid  his  head  on  her 
shoulder ;  but  oh  !  how  sadly — how  moodily  he  spoke  !  Dis- 
guise it  as  he  might,  he  was  made  for  action,  not  for  rest,  and 
fond  though  he  no  doubt  was  of  her,  he  was  of  all  men  the  last 
intended  by  Nature  for  mere  domestic  joys.  Sybil  urged  her 
theme  again.  She  wanted  'to  go  away,  to  travel,  to  hide  some- 
where, and  begin  a  new  life,  but  Mr.  Dermot  gently  resisted. 

"Where  is  the  use?"  he  sadly  said — "it  is  only  for  your 
sake  that  I  might  wish  to  go,  Sybil.  But  I  will  not  fly  my 
fate.  Discovery  would  be  sure  to  come  sooner  or  later — it  has 
come  now — let  it  be.  I  will  shut  myself  out  from  life,  and 
fancy  myself  like  the  first  man,  since  I,  too,  have  got  my  Eve, 
and  one  who  will  never  tempt  me  to  sin,"  he  added,  with  a 
grave  smile. 

"  But  who  has  cost  you  very  dear,"  sorrowfully  said  Sybil. 
"  Oh  !  Mr.  Dermot,  you  cannot  say  that  I  am  not  the  cause  of 
all?" 

"  Not  of  all,  but  of  much  ;  but  perhaps  I  like  you  none  the 
worse  for  that,"  he  replied,  very  kindly. 

She  turned  her  face  away  that  he  might  not  see  the  flush 
of  joy  his  words  called  up.  But  he  saw  it  very  well,  and  he 
read  its  meaning.  He  knew  that  if  she  was  dear  to  him,  he 
was  infinitely  dear  to  her;  and  though  that  love  could  not Hll 
up  his  life,  it  had  the  power  to  charm  much  of  its  bitterness 
away.  Yes,  in  the  midst  of  his  humiliation,  it  was  a  keen  joy 
to  possess  this  bright  young  creature's  perfect  love,  to  feel  with- 


420  sybil's  second  love. 

in  his  inmost  heart,  "  Let  whatsoever  fate  come  near  me,  this  ia 
mine  ! " 

She  was  all  that  he  had  saved  from  the  great  wreck  of  his 
life.  Peace,  fair  name,  the  world's  regard,  all  had  perished  ; 
hut  this  was  left — this  and  no  more  ! 


CHAPTER     L  V 1 1 . 

Mrs.  Kennedy  was  sitting  hy  the  open  window  in  her 
room,  moodilv  watching  the  comma;  of  the  storm  her  husband 
had  predicted,  and  -which  was  slowly  gathering  in  the  west. 
She  cared  naught  for  it.  If  it  had  laid  waste  all  Saint  Vincent, 
and  blasted  every  tree  within  its  limits,  she  would  have  cared 
naught  still.  Her  brief  reign  and  false  splendor  were  both  over. 
That  old  garden  beneath  her,  those  pleasant  grounds,  that  fair 
abode,  belonged  to  her  enemy.  She  had  embittered  his  posses- 
sion of  them,  but  they  were  his,  and  she  must  go  forth.  This 
was  her  weakness  and  his  strength— he  was  rich,  and  she  was 
poor.  And  where  would  her  husband  take  her  now?  What 
sort  of  a  home  would  he  give  her  ?  She  was  in  his  power ;  this 
she  felt,  too.  For  his  anger,  for  his  reproaches,  she  cared  noth- 
ing. She  had  been  exposed  to  Sybil,  and  that  her  once  ador- 
ing friend  should  have  read  her  baseness,  was  the  only  sting  of 
shame  Mrs.  Kennedy  could  feel;  it  was  not  much,  but  it  was 
something. 

But  more,  far  more  than  all  this,  was  the  horror  of  poverty 
which  had  seized  her,  since  she  had  learned  that  Sybil  was  Mr. 
Dermot's  wife.  Had  she  risen  out  of  that  slough  of  despond 
but  to  sink  into  it  again  ?  And  how  they  would  pity  her,  Mrs. 
Ronald  and  all ! — how  they  would  lament  the  cheat  Mrs.  Ken- 
nedy had  practised  upon  her!  For  he  had  had  her  cheap, 
\>  n  cheap,  after  all ;  and  though  she  had  punished  Mr.  Dermot 
severely  for  Mr.  Kennedy's  sin,  she  had  not  thereby  lightened 
the  insufferable  load  from  her  own  shoulders.  Besides,  Mrs. 
Kennedy  knew  the  world,  or  thought  that  she  knew  it.  She 
worshipped  money,  and  would  not  believe  in  a  higher  standard 
of  merit  with  others. 

"Before  six  months  are  out,"  she  thought,  with  unutterable 


sybil's  second  love.  421 

bitterness  of  heart,  "  the}-  -will  all  be  crawling  before  Sybil  and 
that  man  !  Mrs.  Ronald  as  -well  as  the  rest.  Oh !  I  know 
them — I  know  them,  vile  wretches  !  I  have  not  forgotten  how 
they  scorned  Blanche  Cains,  and  flattered  Mrs.  Kennedy ! 
"What  is  the  good  of  a  revenge  that  leaves  him  Saint  Vincent  ? "' 

"  Mrs.  Kennedy,"  said  her  husband's  voice. 

She  had  heard  him  enter  the  room,  but  had  not  deigned  to 
turn  round.  When  he  spoke,  however,  she  gave  him  a  slow, 
careless  look,  then  turned  back  again  to  the  window. 

"Mrs.  Kennedy,"  he  said,  very  sharply,  "I  beg  you  will 
pack  up  and  get  ready.  You  cannot  mean  to  sleep  in  Mr.  Der- 
mot's  house  to-night !  " 

She  was  stung,  as  he  meant  she  should  be ;  but  she  scorned 
to  reply. 

"  I  have  taken  a  house  in  Saint  Vincent,"  he  continued, 
"  and  it  is  ready  for  you." 

"  A  house  m  Saint  Vincent !  Perhaps  you  will  condescend 
to  tell  me  in  what  part  ?  " 

"  In  the  main  street." 

Mrs.  Kennedy's  eyes  sparkled  with  anger.  There  was  not 
one  good  house  in  the  main  street,  and  she  knew  it.  Did  her 
husband  mean  to  confine  her  in  one  of  those  shabby  dwellings, 
with  their  narrow  doors,  and  low  ceilings,  and  dull  windows? 
Had  she  married  him  for  this  ?  Was  she  to  become  the  laugh- 
ing-stock of  all  Saint  Vincent  ? 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said,  rising  and  confronting  him,  "  I 
will  not  go  to  a  house  in  the  main  street !  " 

"  You  shall,"  he  replied. 

"  I  wonder  how  you  will  compel  me  to  it  ? " 

"  And  I  wonder  how  you  will  avoid  it  ?  " 

They  exchanged  looks  of  mutual  defiance.  He  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"  Get  ready,"  he  said  again,  "  and  never  go  on  with  the 
miserable  folly  you  were  guilty  of  to-day.  Dermot  will  be,  as 
he  has  ever  been,  too  much  for  you  ?  And  though  I  know  he 
will  spare  you  for  my  sake,  do  not  trust  to  that  too  often.  Let 
there  be  no  more  forged  or  anonymous  letters,  please.  You 
are  in  his  power,  you  know !  " 

"  In  his  power  !  "  she  repeated,  with  unutterable  scorn.  "lu 
his  power ! " 

But  she  suddenly  remembered  the  six  numbers  of  tbe 
Moonagh  Herald,  and  she  turned  on  her  husband  with  a  flicker 
of  triumoh  in  her  eyes. 


422  sybil's  second  love. 

"  You  are  too  good,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  trust 
that,  as  the  Moonagh  Herald  is  neither  an  anonymous  lettei 
nor  'a  forged  one,  I  am  safe  from  Mr.  Dermot's  wrath  there." 

He  turned  pale  as  death,  and  looked  wildly  around  the 
room. 

She  laughed  aloud. 

"  Oh  !  you  need  not  look  at  the  bureau,"  she  said,  nodding 
with  ironical  triumph;  "the  papers  are  safe,  Mr.  Kennedy — 

safe ! " 

"Safe!"  he  repeated;  "oh!  for  God's  sake,  Blanche,  give 

them  to  me ! — give  them  to  me ! " 

"Oh!  yes,  quite  safe,"  she  pitilessly  repeated;  "I  made 
presents  of  them  this  afternoon." 

The  extent  of  the  calamity  overcame  his  angef.  He  looked 
at  her  in  mute  anguish,  which  at  once  sobered  her.  She  saw 
that  she  had  done  something  dreadful ;  that  some  yawning  pit 
spread  before  her  feet,  and  that  she  must  fall  into  the  dark  abyss 
and  perish  there.     She  turned  pale  and  trembled. 

"  There  is  one  left,"  she  said  faintly ;  and  she  took  the  little 
sealed  parcel  out  of  her  pocket.     "  I  only  took  six." 

One  was  left,  and  five  were  gone  !  One !  He  did  not  care 
for  it.  He  was  ruined  and  undone.  One  paper  was  enough  to 
do  it,  and  she  had  given  five  away  that  afternoon  !  She  looked 
at  him  as  he  stood  there,  pale,  ghastly,  and  silent,  and  she 
stamped  her  foot  in  mingled  rage  and  frenzy. 

"  Can't  you  speak  and  tell  me  what  it  is  ? "  she  cried ; 
"  speak,  I  tell  you,  speak !  " 

He  raised  his  sullen  head  and  looked  at  her.  Oh  !  what  a 
mortal  hate  he  now  felt  toward  that  young,  adored  wife,  who 
had  wrought  his  perdition !  Love  might  come  again,  for  he 
seldom  dies  that  sudden,  violent  death  ;  but  for  the  time  being, 
Hate  was  triumphant. 

"You  have  mined  me,"  he  replied  ;  "but  there  is  one  com- 
fort, you  have  ruined  yourself  too.  You  have  dragged  me  down, 
but  then  I  drag  you  down  with  me." 

"  But  how  ? — how  so  ?  "  she  cried  angrily. 

"  You  have  one  left — look  and  see." 

He  walked  out  of  the  room.  She  heard  him  going  down- 
si  ;iirs.  With  a  sort  of  stupor  she  listened  to  his  receding  step. 
Was  he  really  going  down  to  ruin,  and  must  she  follow  him  ? 
Was  there  no  escape  for  her,  at  least?  She  rallied  and  rebelled 
a1  the  thought.     She  tore  the  paper  open.     She  devoured  its 


Sybil's  second  love.  423 

contents.  Again  she  found  and  read  tlic  coroners  inquest;  but 
she  found  and  read  more ;  she  read  a  paragraph  in  the  third  col- 
umn of  the  fourth  page,  entitled  latest  particulars,  and  which 
ran  thus : 

"  Since  the  close  of  this  extraordinary  inquiry,  some  new 
particulars  have  come  to  light.  Mr.  Kennedy,  whose  testimony 
was  heard  on  the  inquest,  is  now  stated  to  have  been  the  last 
person  seen  in  the  house  with  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Smith.  We 
also  understand  that  Mr.  Kennedy  purchased  a  valuable  patent 
from  Mr.  Smith  two  years  ago,  and  that  this  patent  subjected 
Mr.  Kennedy  to  the  payment  of  a  heavy  annuity,  which  ceases 
with  Mr.  Smith's  death.  Mr.  Kennedy  left  Moonagh  as  soon 
as  the  inquiry  was  concluded,  and  it  is  believed  he  is  gone  to 
America.  Mr.  Dermot,  whose  manly  and  indignant  protest 
against  the  foul  accusation  created  so  strong  a  feeling  in  his 
favor,  is  still  in  Moonagh." 

"  And  I  did  not  see  that,"  thought  Blanche,  crushing  the 
paper  in  her  hands ;  "  and  I  gave  five  away  to-day." 

Yes,  you  have  dug  a  pit,  and  you  have  fallen  into  it,  Blanche 
Cains.  You  have  dishonored  your  husband,  and  helped  to  clear 
the  fame  of  your  enemy.  What  justice  and  generosity  would 
not  let  Mr.  Kennedy  do,  your  blind  hatred  for  Mr.  Dermot  has 
done.  The  world  knows  now,  the  world  of  Saint  Vincent,  at 
least,  knows  that  two  shared  the  suspicion  of  Mr.  Smith's  death, 
and  that  the  heavier  doubt  fell  on  the  man  whose  name  you 
bear.  Whether  accident  or  crime  made  Mr.  Smith  perish  so 
miserably  in  Mr.  Dermot's  house,  Mr.  Dermot  certainly  was  not 
the  great  gainer  by  the  close  of  that  sad  story.  Innocent  or 
guilty,  he  did  not  reap  the  benefit  of  that  man's  death. 

"  Oh  !  if  I  had  known  about  that  annuity,"  thought  Blanche 
Cains,  in  a  transport  of  grief  and  despair  ;  "  if  Sybil,  if  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy, if  any  one  had  told  mc !  Why  did  not  Reginald  find 
that  out  ?  Why  did  he  deceive  mc  with  half  a  story,  when  he 
must  have  known  the  whole,  and  been  the  veriest  fool  that  ever 
lived  ?  Did  he  go  to  Moonagh  as  I  bade  him,  or  gamble  away 
the  money,  and  bribe  some  wretch  to  do  it,  who  betrayed  us  ? " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  not  to  receive  her  tears — 
Blanche  Cains  seldom  wept — but  to  exclude  every  image,  and 
concentrate  thought. 

Vain  task — thought  would  not  come.  It  was  all  a  desperate 
chaos,  over  which  shone  no  star  of  redemption.  Oh  !  how  easy 
it  is  to  go  down  to  ruin,  that  Avernus  of  the  poets  !  how  swift 


424  SYBIL  8  SECOND  LOVE. 

is  the  descent  to  that  dismal  world  peopled  with  pale  shadows 
and  tormented  sonls !  How  impossible  the  return  upward  to 
sunlight  and  sky  and  green  earth  !  In  vain  this  woman  rebelled 
against  her  fate,  and  wanted  to  defy  it ;  her  husband's  words 
rang  in  her  ears,  prophetic  of  their  future  : 

"You  have  dragged  me  down,  but  then  I  drag  you  down 
with  me." 

And  so  he  did.  And  there  was  no  remedy  ;  and,  galling 
thought,  she  had  done  it.  She  had  cleared  her  enemy,  to 
blacken  her  husband.  And  she  must  leave  Saint  Vincent,  and 
Mr.  Dermot  and  Sybil  would  remain  in  it.  She  looked  around 
her  very  moodily.  She  saw  the  blue  hangings,  where  the 
white  cupids  ever  played,  and  ever  shot  their  arrows  from  be- 
hind Pompadour  wreaths.  She  saw  the  costly  carpet,  the  lace 
curtains,  the  exquisite  furniture,  and  which  did  she  most  hate 
then  ?  The  hollow  splendor  for  which  she  had  sold  herself,  or 
the  deceiver,  who  was  poor  when  she  thought  him  rich,  and  dis- 
honored when  she  held  him  secure  and  strong  in  the  world's  es- 
teem ?  It  mattered  very  little,  her  chastisement  was  but  begin- 
ning. This  was  only  the  first  phase — the  first  dark  hour  of  a 
long  brotherhood  who  were  to  spring  up  again  and  again  in  her 
life. 

At  no  time  was  Mr.  Kennedy  a  man  of  many  words.  He 
now  had  but  one  thought — to  make  the  best  of  the  evil  his  wife 
had  wrought. 

He  went  down  to  the  stable,  saddled  his  horse  himself,  and 
rode  off  to  Saint  Vincent,  without  uttering  a  word  to  a  living 
soul.  Narcisse  indulged  in  a  few  amazed  ejaculations  and  re- 
monstrances, but  it  was  as  if  Mr.  Kennedy  heard  him  not. 

Mrs.  Ronald  was  within,  and  when  Mr.  Kennedy  sent  up  his 
card  he  was  admitted  at  once.  Mrs.  Ronald  came  down  to  him 
in  the  drawing-room,  with  the  Moonagh  Herald  in  her  hand. 
She  did  so  purposely,  and  on  seeing  it,  Mr.  Kennedy's  faint 
hopes  of  winning  her  over  to  his  cause  sickened  and  died.  Still 
he  would  not  be  conquered  without  a  struggle,  and,  trying  to 
smile,  he  said, 

u  I  need  scarcely  tell  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ronald,  what 
brings  mc  here.  The  fact  is,  I  have  just  learned  that  this  un- 
lucky paper  was  in  your  hands,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  rest  even 
for  a  few  minutes  under  your  evil  thought." 

"  I  never  was  so  surprised  !  "  gravely  said  Mrs.  Ronald.  "  I 
found  this  in  my  carriage,  and  never  was  so  surprised,  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy." 


SYBIL  S  SECOND  LOVE.  425 

"  It  is  a  cruel,  a  vile  slander,"  he  said  eagerly  ;  "  after  light- 
ing on  my  friend  and  partner,  Mr.  Dermot,  it  fell  upon  me,  and 
the  editor  of  the  Moonagh  Herald  narrowly  escaped  an  action 
for  libel." 

"  I  never  was  so  surprised,"  resumed  Mrs.  Ronald  coldly  ; 
"  you  had  told  me  so  positively  that  there  was  no  foundation 
for  the  accusation  against  Mr.  Dermot,  that  I  was  amazed  to 
find  you  had  deceived  me,  Mr.  Kennedy ;  for  of  course  I  cannot 
say — I  regret  that  I  cannot — you  were  mistaken." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Ronald,  I  regret  having  deceived  you,  but 
it  was  a  secret  I  had  no  right  to  betray." 

"  A  newspaper  secret,  Mr.  Kennedy  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  known  here,  and  never  would  have  been,  if  Mr. 
Dermot  and  I  had  not  had  the  misfortune  to  have  an  enemy, 
Mrs.  Ronald  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Kenned3T,  it  would  have  been  known  sooner  or  later, 
and  had  I  been  you  I  would  have  told  it  myself  instead  of  conceal- 
ing it." 

Mr.  Kennedy  was  silent  a  while.  He  wondered  if  she  had 
read  the  paragraph  that  concerned  him.  He  had  no  need  to 
question  ;  Mrs.  Ronald  soon  enlightened  him. 

"  Moreover,  Mr.  Kennedy,  I  think  it  was  scarcely  generous 
to  Mr.  Dermot  to  let  suspicion  and  doubt  rest  solely  upon  him, 
when,  as  it  now  seems,  you  had  your  share  of  both.  It  is  a 
very  strange  story  altogether.  So  far  as  I  can  understand,  Mr. 
Dermot  had  no  interest  in  Mr.  Smith's  death,  and  need  never 
have  been  suspected." 

Mr.  Kennedy  looked  hard  at  her. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  ought  to  have  been  suspected, 
Mrs.  Ronald  ? " 

"  I  say  nothing,  Mr.  Kennedy ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
think  it  is  you,  and  not  Mr.  Dermot,  who  ought  to  leave  Saint 
Vincent." 

"  He  will  not  leave  it,"  sullenly  replied  Mr.  Kennedy  ;  "  he 
keeps  the  abbey  and  the  mill.     They  are  his." 

Mrs.  Ronald  became  scarlet.  Not  an  hour  ago  Mr.  Kennedy 
had  told  her  that  Mr.  Dermot  was  leaving  ;  and  now  she  learned 
not  merely  that  he  was  staying,  but  that  she,  Mrs.  Ronald,  had 
been  in  the  disgraced  man's  house,  and  had  affronted  him  in 
his  own  drawing-room. 

"Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said,  severely,  "I  can  scarcely  trust 
myself  to  comment  upon  such  conduct.  The  next  thing  will  be, 
I  suppose,  that  Mr.  Dermot  marries  your  daughter?" 


426  sybil's  second  loye. 

Mr.  Kennedy  paused  before  lie  replied.  At  length  he  said, 
slowly  and  deliberately :  "They  have  been  married  privately 
for  some  time." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  wrathfully  said  Mrs.  Ronald,  "  you 
have  behaved  abominably  to  your  friend  and  son-in-law.  He 
certainly  must  be  a  very  generous  man  to  bear  with  such  usage ; 
and  I  tell  you  plainly  that,  if  ever  this  matter  is  mentioned  to 
me,  I  shall  feel  it  my  duty  to  state  the  case  as  it  really  is,  Mr. 
Kennedy." 

"  And  what  good  will  it  do  him  that  you  should  injure  me, 
Mrs.  Ronald  ?  I  never  sought  to  throw  the  blame  of  this  upon 
him  ;  but  when  accusation  sought  him,  and  let  me  go  by,  we 
both  agreed  to  let  the  matter  rest  so.  Dermot  and  I  have  been 
fast  friends  for  many  years,  and  each  of  us  owes  the  other  many 
a  good  turn." 

"  Mr.  Dermot  has  behaved  like  a  gentleman,"  emphatically 
said  Mrs.  Ronald. 

Mr.  Kennedy  smiled  bitterly. 

"  He  has,"  he  said ;  "  but  the  evil,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned, 
is  done.  I,  too,  am  an  innocent  and  slandered  man,  Mrs. 
Ronald.  As  God  hears  me,  I  am.  Why,  then,  should  you  not 
spare  me  ? " 

Mrs.  Ronald  hesitated. 

"Mr.  Kennedy,"  she  said,  "you  ask  too  much.  I  am  ex- 
pected to  know  thoroughly  all  that  concerns  the  character  of  my 
friends.  I  cannot,  if  this  matter  is  mentioned  to  me,  seem 
ignorant." 

"  Your  ignorance  would  prove  it  to  be  a  slander,  Mrs. 
Ronald,"  he  boldly  replied.  "  Who  would  believe  that  to  be 
true  which  you  did  not  know  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,  you  ask  too  much,"  she  said  again,  and  this 
time  with  much  stiffness.  "  My  position  in  society  involves  a 
responsibility  to  which  I  must  be  faithful.  I  cannot  deceive  the 
persons  who  do  me  the  honor  to  take  me  as  their  social  guide, 
Mr.  Kennedy." 

She  paused.  Mr.  Kennedy  looked  at  her  as  if  expecting 
move.      Mrs.  Ronald  resumed,  in  her  most  patronizing  manner  : 

"  If  yon  ask  my  advice,  Mr.  Kennedy — " 

Mr.  Kennedy  hastened  to  interrupt  her,  in  order  to  assure 
her  of  the  value  he  set  on  her  counsel;  she  smiled  graciously, 
and  resumed — 

"  My  opinion  is,  Mr.  Kennedy,  that  you  ought  to  leave  Saint 


Sybil's  second  love.  427 

Vincent  for  a  time.  This  unfortunate  business  must  end  by 
being  forgotten,  and  I  would  further  advise  you  to  be  very 
cautious,  and  to  feel  your  ground  when  you  return.  The  world 
is  not  very  lenient,  Mr.  Kennedy." 

Who  knew  it  better  than  the  wretched  man  who  humbled 
his  pride  before  the  autocrat  of  the  Saint  Vincent  world  ?  Cold 
as  this  comfort  was,  he  looked  grateful,  and  said,  with  a  cheer- 
ful smile : 

"  Mrs.  Ronald,  I  leave  my  case  in  your  hands,  and  unless 
you  feel  compelled  to  mention  it,  I  know  you  will  not  repeat  the 
•slander  of  this  miserable,  lying  Moonagh  Herald." 

"  Mr.  Kennedy,  I  will  do  what  I  can,  but  I  trust,  for  your 
sake,  that  this  is  a  solitary  copy." 

Drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  Mr.  Kennedy's  forehead. 
He  tried  to  laugh. 

"  I  fear  not,"  he  said — "  I  fear  that  four  more  copies  were 
given  to  your  friends  this  afternoon ;  only,  I  hope  that,  with 
your  influence — " 

Mrs.  Ronald  rose  in  stately  indignation. 

"  Four  more  copies  ! "  she  said — "  why  not  a  dozen  ?  And 
you  come  to  me,  and  ask  me  to  commit  myself  for  you,  Mr. 
Kennedy  ? — you  amaze  me.  I  wash  my  hands  of  it,  sir,  and  I 
say  it  with  regret,  for  I  have  a  strong  regard  for  your  unfortu- 
nate young  wife,  but  all  intercourse  between  us  must  henceforth 
cease.  I  cannot  risk  my  position  in  society  to  render  you  a 
doubtful  service,  and  what  is  more,  Mr.  Kennedy,  I  will  not!" 

Mr.  Kennedy  rose,  and  bowed  haughtily.  His  case  had 
been  heard,  and  was  dismissed.  It  was  useless  to  humble  him- 
self any  more  to  Mrs.  Ronald.  He  left  he*  without  a  word,  and 
Mrs.  Ronald,  still  hot  and  indignant,  went  to  Miss  Spencer's 
room,  and  found  that  lady  engaged  in  perusing  her  copy  of  the 
Moonagh  Herald. 

"  So  you  too  have  got  one,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Well,  of  all 
brazen  men,  Mr.  Kennedy  must  be  the  most  brazen,  to  come  to 
me  arid  expect  me  to  interfere  in  his  case  after  that!  I  never 
heard  the  like,  never  ! " 

"  But  how  strange  a  story  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Spencer.  "  I 
was  looking  for  my  handkerchief  in  my  silk  paletot  pocket,  and 
I  felt  something  cold  and  clammy.  It  gave  me  quite  a  turn, 
and  it  was  this  newspaper,  wrapped  up  in  a  sheet  of  glaeo 
paper." 

"  It  is  verv  odd.      I  am  vexed  I  never  thought  of  asking 


428  sybil's  second  love. 

Mr.  Kennedy  Low  lie  knew  I  had  got  a  copy.  I  cannot  say  I 
feel  any  regard  or  regret  for  him  ;  but  I  am  deeply  sorry  for 
poor  dear  Mrs.  Kennedy  ! " 

"  She  certainly  is  very  much  to  be  pitied,"  guardedly  said 
Miss  Spencer;  "  and  perhaps,  Mrs.  Ronald,  she  could  tell  you 
who  put  this  copy  of  the  Moonagh  Herald  in  my  paletot,  for  I 
saw  her  in  the  cloak-room  just  before  the  rehearsal  began." 

"  In  the  cloak-room,  Miss  Spencer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  came  to  see  Mrs.  Gray's  mantle.  I  never  saw  so 
becoming   a   shape,  and   I   told   her   so.     All   trimmed    with 

chantilly." 

"  Miss  Spencer,  your  frivolity  amazes  me.  What  has  chan- 
tilly to  do  with  poor  Mrs.  Kennedy's  case,  one  of  .the  most  dis- 
tressing I  have  heard  of  for  a  long  time  ? " 

"  I  only  thought  that  she  could  perhaps  tell  us  who  had  left 
the  paper  there  ;  it  is  so  odd  to  find  a  sealed  packet  in  one's 
paletot  pocket ! " 

Mrs.  Ronald  was  staggered,  but  not  convinced.  Her  faith  in 
Mrs.  Kennedy  was  stronger  than  appearances.  Moreover,  what 
motives  could  Mrs.  Kennedy  have  for  disgracing  her  own  hus- 
band? But  she  was  sorry  she  had  neglected  to  ask  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy where  he  had  got  such  correct  and  speedy  information ; 
and  now  it  was  too  late  to  question  him.  It  was  provoking, 
but  intercourse  with  that  wretched  man  was*  over  forever,  of 
course.  And  Mrs.  Ronald  expressed  to  Miss  Spencer  her  deep 
concern  at  the  unnecessary  affront  which  had  been  inflicted  on 
Mr.  Dermot.  To  go  to  a  man's  house  and  insult  him  was 
something  so  indecorous,  that  Mrs.  Ronald's  feelings  were  quite 

hurt. 

"  I  wish,  Miss  Spencer,  you  would  write  a  note  to  him." 
So  Miss  Spencer  sat  down  and  at  once  indited  the  following 

epistle : — 

"  Mrs.  Ronald  presents  her  compliments  to  Mr.  Dermot,  and 
begs  to  express  her  deep  regret  for  what  occurred  to-day.  Mrs. 
Ronald  need  scarcely  assure  Mr.  Dermot  that,  had  she  known 
"//  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  matters  would  have  gone  on 
very  differently  indeed.  She  concludes  by  assuring  Mr.  Der- 
mot that  if  her  influence  can  avail  aught  in  Saint  Vincent, 
justice  shall  be  done  to  him." 

"Shall  I  add  any  thing  for  Mrs.  Dermot?"  asked  Miss 
Spencer. 


Sybil's  second  love.  429 

"  No,"  sternly  replied  Mrs.  Ronald.  "  I  have  no  regard  for 
that  young  lad}7.  Ah  !  Miss  Spencer,  why  did  not  that  foolish 
Mr.  Dermot  marry  that  fine  creature,  Mrs.  Kennedy  ?  But  men 
will  behlind!" 


CHAPTER    LVIII. 

"Whex  Mr.  Kennedy  returned  to  Saint  Vincent,  his  first 
act  was  to  go  to  his  study,  lock  himself  in,  and  destroy  the  re- 
maining copies  of  the  Moonagh  Herald.  After  this  he  went 
up  to  his  wife.  He  remembered  that  she  had  one  copy  still, 
and  he  would  not  trust  her  with  it. 

"  Mrs.  Kennedy,  I  want  that  paper,"  he  said,  shortly,  as  he 
entered  her  room. 

She  pointed  to  the  hearth  without  answering.  He  knelt  on 
the  floor,  and  scanned  closely  the  heap  of  black  ashes  before 
him.  Half-consumed  fragments  convinced  him  that  his  wife 
had  really  burned  the  Moonagh  Herald.  Ah  !  what  would  he 
not  have  given  for  the  other  five  copies  to  be  there  too  ! 

"  Tell  Ralph  to  pack  your  trunks,"  he  said,  rising. 

"  They  are  packed,"  she  sullenly  replied. 

She  did  not  ask  where  they  were  going,  nor  did  he  tell  her. 
Both  felt  and  knew  that  Saint  Vincent  was  closed  upon  them. 
This  was  enough. 

"  The  carriage  will  be  ready  presently,"  he  said,  turning 
awav ;  "  be  readv  too." 

She  did  not  answer;  but  there  was  no  resistance  in  her  pale 
face.  She  was  conquered  so  far,  that,  provided  she  left  at  once, 
she  did  not  care  whither  her  husband  took  her.  But  though 
she  wished  to  go,  she  scorned  him  for  going  !  "  If  he  were  a 
man,"  she  thought,  "he  would  stay  and  defy  them  all ! "  And 
she  remembered  Mr.  Dermot's  haughty  endurance  that  morn- 
ing, and  envied  Sybil  the  sad  pride  with  which  she  had  looked 
up  at  her  husband.     - 

There  was  not  much  nobleness  about  Mr.  Kennedy;  bnt 
whatever  his  wife  might  think  to  the  contrary,  there  v.  as  no 
cowardice.  He  would  have  stayed  in  Saint  Vincent,  and  defied 
or  conquered  opinion,  had  it  not  been  opposed  to  his  commer- 
cial prospects  to  do  so.     He  was  not  a  rich  man,  like  his  son-in- 


430  sybil's  second  love. 

law,  and  he  could  not  afford,  like  him,  to  sit  down  in  idleness. 
When  conquered,  he  must  seek  new  fields  of  exertion ;  and  to 
do  so,  he  must  stand  fair  in  the  esteem  of  his  fellow-men.  Mrs. 
Ronald  and  her  circle  were  not  the  world;  and  he  had 
scarcely  crossed  the  threshold  of  her  house,  when  his  active 
brain  had  planned  out  a  new  promising  scheme,  which  had 
helped  to  drive  away  the  hitter  remembrance  of  his  present  hu- 
miliation. 

"  I  did  not  love  him,  and  now  I  shall  despise  him,"  thought 
his  wife,  moodily.  "  I  suppose  he  has  gone  to  bid  his  daughter 
and  son-in-law  good-by — let  him.  I  would  scorn  to  be  so 
mean  ! " 

As  she  came  to  this  conclusion,  Ralph  informed  her  that  the 
carriage  was  waiting.  Mrs.  Kennedy  put  on  her  shawl,  sullenly 
tied  her  bonnet-strings,  and  went  down-stairs  without  a  word. 
Whilst  she  settled  herself  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  low- 
ered her  veil,  and  would  see  nothing,  her  husband  was,  as  she 
had  thought,  bidding  Sybil  and  Mr.  Dermot  good-by.  He  had 
spoken  in  private  to  bis  son-in-law  ;  but  Sybil  knew  nothing — 
nothing,  save  that  her  father  was  going  away. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  be  happy  in  your  way,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  them  rather  moodily  ;  "  well,  let  it  be.  I  wish  you  may 
— I  wish  you  may,"  he  vaguely  repeated  ;  "  you  have  been  a 
good  child,  Sybil ;  and  you,  Dermot,"  he  added,  looking  at  him 
very  earnestly,  "  you  have  been  more  than  brother  or  child  to 
me.     Good-by — God  bless  you  !  " 

There  was  no  warmth  in  his  voice,  no  fervor  in  the  blessing. 
Sybil  clung  to  him,  and  he  kissed  her,  but  cold  was  the  caress ; 
and  cold  the  pressure  of  the  hand  he  gave  to  his  daughter's 
husband.  They  were  happy,  he  saw  it,  and  it  was  not  in  his 
power  to  see  that  happiness  without  bitterness  of  heart.  Mr. 
Dermot  knew  better  than  Sybil  what  was  in  her  father's 
thoughts.  lie  gently  drew  her  back,  and  released  him  from 
her  caresses;  and  when  Mr.  Kennedy  turned  away  and  left 
them,  he  detained  her  as  she  half  sprang  after  him. 

"  Let  him  go,"  he  said  ;  "  you  do  him  no  good — let  him  go." 

Sybil  yielded.  Mr.  Kennedy  walked  away  very  slowly  to 
the  carriage,  where  his  wife  was  waiting.  Behind  him  he  left 
wealth,  love,  and  a  name,  from  which  the  shadow  was  going 
away.  And  he  went  forth  to  meet  poverty,  hate,  and  disgrace. 
Something  of  this  Sybil  guessed,  as  she  stood  looking  aftei 
him,  with  tears  in  ber  eyes.  Mr.  Dermot  looked  too,  but  dif- 
ferent were  his  conclusions. 


SYBIL  S    SECOND   LOVE.  43] 

"  Before  a  year  is  out,"  he  thought,  "James  Kennedy  will 
not  care  a  rush  for  his  wife,  and  he  will  either  he  a  rich  man 
again,  or  on  the  road  to  wealth.  In  him  the  commercial  man 
will  survive  all  else." 

Scarcely  had  the  carriage  rolled  away  from  the  gates  of 
Saint  Vincent,  when  Denise  came  in  with  Mrs.  Ronald's  note. 
Mr.  Dermot  read  it,  and  smiled,  and  handed  it  to  Sybil,  who 
•vddened  and  looked  scornful. 

"  Well,  Sybil,"  he  said  gravely,  "  the  world  is  open  unto  us 
once  more.     Shall  we  call  on  Mrs.  Ronald  or  ask  her  here  ? " 

"  Never  !  never  ! "  impetuously  cried  Sybil ;  "  never  let  the 
woman,  who  insulted  you  without  cause,  enter  this  house  !" 

"  And  she  never  shall,"  he  emphatically  replied  ;  "  but  yet, 
mind  you,  Sybil,  that  is  solitude." 

"  Let  it  be.  Saint  Vincent  is  wide  enough  for  me.  We 
will  make  a  new  Eden  of  it,  and  let  the  world  go  by." 

Alas !  Eden  is  lost.  Sin  and  death  have  closed  its  gates, 
and  it  will  never  be  found  again.  Even  as  the  fond  girl  spoke 
so,  the  long-cominor  storm  broke  forth.  A  lightning-flash  filled 
the  room,  and  a  thunder-peal  shook  the  whole  house.  She 
turned  to  her  husband  with  sudden  dread. 

In  vain  he  spoke  to  her  and  bade  her  not  fear.  His  voice 
was  drowned  in  the  fury  of  the  storm.  Violent  and  brief,  like  a 
tornado,  it  lasted  but  a  few  minutes,  but  when  it  was  over,  and 
silence  returned,  Mr.  Dermot  said, 

"  There  will  be  many  a  broken  bough,  and  many  a  shattered 
nest  after  this." 

He  rose  and  opened  the  French  window  of  the  dining-room, 
and  Sybil,  who  looked  from  behind  him,  saw  the  garden  smiling 
and  bright  before  them.  The  sky  was  clear  again,  the  sun 
shone  across  pools  of  water,  and  a  blackbird,  hidden  in  the  top- 
most boughs  of  an  ancient  tree,  sang  triumphantly,  careless  of 
the  storm,  which  had  strewn  the  earth  with  torn  branches,  but 
had  not  reached  his  nest  and  his  young. 

Even  so  was  their  fate,  and  Mr.  "Dermot  knew  it.  The 
storm  through  which  he  had  just  passed  would  leave  its  traces 
in  his  life,  traces  that  would  last  to  his  dying  day.  Miss  (ilvn 
he  could  forgive,  for  she  had  done  him  justice  in  her  heart ; 
but  he  felt  embittered  against  that  little  world  which  had  been 
so  hard  to  him  in  his  dark  hour,  and  from  his  inmost  heart  he 
scorned  its  tardy  penitence.  lie  looked  at  the  fond  and  true 
girl  by  his  side,  and  resolved  to  set  his  heart  there,  QOt  in  idle- 


£32  sybil's  second  love. 

ness  or  uxorious  fondness,  but  in  all  manliness  and  truth.  Slie 
was  young  and  pretty,  and  he  loved  her  very  much ;  and  he 
liked  that  old  home  where  they  were  to  live  henceforth.  If  this 
was  not  Eden  after  all,  if  this  was  earth  bearing  the  full  bur- 
den of  man's  sin — earth  made  for  labor  and  endurance — it  was 
also  earth  with  love  surviving  the  fall,  and  burning  clear  and 
bright  above  the  dark  tide  of  sorrow. 

"  And  will  you  be  happy  here  alone  with  me,  Sybil  ? "  he 
asked,  with  his  most  searching  look. 

"  Happy !  Ay,  I  indeed,  I  shall  only  wonder  what  I  have 
done  to  be  so  happy  !  " 

"  Nothing,  I  dare  say.  What  share  has  one's  doing  in 
happiness  ?  It  comes  and  goes  as  God  wills,  being,  as  a  rule, 
God's  free  gift." 

"  We  can  be  happy  when  we  please,"  wilfully  said  Sybil. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  do  not.  The  peace  of  an  easy  con- 
science, of  duty  fulfilled,  of  unstained  honor,  we  can  all  attain. 
But  happiness  is  something  too  exquisite  for  mortals  to  com- 
mand. It  comes  unbidden — often  unsought ;  and  wise  are  they 
who  take  it  when  it  comes,  Sybil." 

"  Well,  then,  I  was  wise,"  persisted  Sybil. 

And  he  replied,  with  a  grave  smile, 

"  And  so  was  I." 

And  did  they  really  live  alone,  and  make  an  endless  honey- 
moon of  life  ?  What  need  we  care  to  know  ?  If  their  mood 
changed,  their  love  did  not.  Besides,  we  may  be  sure  that 
when  Miss  Glyn's  commercial  enterprises  failed  utterly,  she 
came,  for  a  while  at  least,  to  the  abbey,  and  liked  Mr.  Deruiot 
rather  more  than  she  did  Sybil.  Mrs.  Mush,  too,  was  there 
now  and  then,  and  gave  them  news  of  how  the  world  without 
went  on,  and  how  Mrs.  Kennedy  had  conquered  a  new  position, 
and  was  the  star  of  the  Welsh  district  where  her  husband  had 
set  up  a  new  business,  and  was  making  a  new  fortune.  Cer- 
tain news,  indeed,  have  reached  us  that  Sybil's  good-natured 
cousin  contemplated  the  completion  of  her  love-story  with  great 
satisfaction  ;  and  a  speech  of  hers,  that  Sybil  had  a  husband  in 
a  thousand,  is  a  matter  of  fact,  as  well  as  Sybil's  saucy  reply : 
"  In  a  thousand,  Mrs.  Mush  !  Why,  you  do  not  suppose  I 
would  have  had  him  if  there  had  been  another  like  him  ?" 


THE    END. 


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